Rippling Out
by Just Groovy
Summary: [Complete!] David is no longer a newsie, Spot can’t forgive Jack for going scab, Racetrack is caught between Manhattan and Brooklyn, and Mush witnesses something awful.
1. Not a Newsie

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies, the characters, the actors, the music, the script, etc. That's all Disney's. The only thing I own is the story I've written here. Please do not move this story from this site. It only belongs here. Anyroad, hope you like it (my first _Newsies_fic!); let me know what you think!******

**Chapter 1: Not a Newsie**

"Headlines's no good today," Jack Kelly grumbled, shuffling through the newspaper.

"Headlines don't sell papes; newsies se—"

"Finish that an' I soak ya," Skittery said to Mush, and the other boy abruptly closed his mouth.

"Aw, lay off him, Skit," Racetrack said, dropping down to sit next to Jack and glancing at one of his own papers. He lit a cigarette—he was out of cigars again—and Jack promptly stole it and put it into his own mouth. "Awright, awright! Have it your way." He pulled another out of his pocket and stuck it into his mouth, lighting it and shaking out the match. "I's off to Sheepshead. Don't wait up." And he was gone.

"Jack?" David had come up quietly, newspapers slung on his shoulder. Jack hadn't heard him come through the line. Or even the gates, come to think of it. "You ready?"

"Yeah," Jack said, standing and playfully shoving Mush and Skittery before lifting his own papers and stretching. "See ya bums around!" he said cheerily to the Manhattan boys, getting a few ribs in return.

"Hiya, Dave!" Crutchy said, coming over with his load of papers.

"Hey, Crutchy," David said quietly. "We going, Jack?"

"Yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on," Jack answered, and he knew, in that second, that something was wrong with David. "I's ready."

The two left, holding papers up and calling out headlines: Jack with his usual enthusiasm and improvement of the truth, and David in a somewhat more subdued manner. Jack was used to David being slightly less boisterous, but he was too quiet today. It wasn't simply that something was wrong. Something was _wrong._

"Come wit' me," he said, grabbing David by the arm and pulling him from the crowd, down a street, into an alley. There, he released the other boy and faced him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," David said irritably.

"Dave—" Jack exhaled impatiently. "Come on. I know somethin's wrong. Ya gonna tell me, or do I gotta force it outta ya?"

David knew Jack would never do anything of the sort, but he also knew that he couldn't keep this secret. It wasn't even a secret. It just hurt to say…hurt to think about, even. "My father got a new job. Back at the factory."

"His arm got better?" Jack asked.

"Yeah. Mostly. Not all the way. It isn't going to get all the way better. But—it's different." David ran a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. "The factory's scared of a strike. They're taking people back or compensating them. Papa's got a job that isn't too hard on his arm now. So they don't have to compensate him for getting hurt. Because they're scared that if they do nothing, they'll have a strike on their hands. Because of the newsies, Jack! Because of us!"

"That's good!" Jack said. "It's _good_, Davey! We did somethin'. We even helped the grown-ups!"

"You don't understand!"

David was right, Jack didn't understand. The strike had been successful. They had succeeded. Why was David so upset, then? Then it hit him. Something hadn't felt right to Jack since David showed up that morning. Something had been missing. And now, it hit him. "Hey, where's the kid? Where's Les?"

"That's what I'm _trying_ to tell you, Jack! He's back at school! Where I'm supposed to be starting tomorrow!"

Jack dropped a paper. He picked it up hurriedly, but it had gotten damp from touching the wet cobblestones. Another one to eat. "What?" he asked weakly.

"You heard my father! He's always been saying that as soon as he got his job back, Les and I'd have to go back to school! He says I can't be a newsie anymore!"

"But he can't—"

"Look, Jack," David said fiercely. "You don't _have _a father telling you what to do! You can make your own decisions! You don't get it!"

"Davey, calm down!"

"But it isn't fair!" David's eyes were filling rapidly, and he blinked hard to keep tears back, to hide them from Jack.

"Calm _down_!" Jack said harshly, and David sank down to a sitting position, his back against the hard wall of a shop. Jack's head hurt. "Sarah never said nothin' 'bout this."

"We just found out. Yesterday. It happened really fast."

Jack shook his head.

Suddenly, David started laughing. His blue eyes were brilliant with moisture, but he was laughing. "Who would've thought I'd be so upset over quitting being a newsboy?"

"It's harder than ya think."

"What is?"

"Quittin' bein' a newsie." _Sante__ Fe._

"I tried to argue with him," David said slowly. "With my father. But he kept going on about the importance of education… He doesn't understand."

"He ain't a newsie," Jack said simply.

"No, he isn't." David sighed then, looking so dejected that Jack slid down the wall to sit next to him. "I just don't want to leave this, Jack." He forced a chuckle. "You should've seen the fit Les threw this morning when Mama wouldn't let him come." He sobered. "She didn't want me to come either, but I told her I had to at least talk to you and have one last day of selling papes."

Jack snorted. "One last day."

"I don't want to go back to school, Jack. I can't really. It's—it's really hard to explain. But I'm different now than I was then. I've changed."

"Bless the streets a' New York." Jack put his hands behind his head and reclined against the wall.

"Yeah."

"Ya wanna finish sellin' an' then go see Medda?" Jack asked.

"No," David said. "I want this day to last forever. I don't want to see Medda, because that means it's all over. She's the end, Jack."

Jack didn't entirely understand, but that was all right. David didn't fully either. His thoughts were muddled and scrambled, and all he could think was that he didn't want to leave this world behind. The world of newspapers and selling and being part of New York.

He would've stayed forever, sitting on the cobblestones in the alley, but Jack rose and pulled David up. "Well, we's got two-hundred papes between us to sell today, Dave. And no little bruddah to use as a fronter. We better get at it."

David picked his papers up from the dry spot he'd found to put them in, and looked at Jack. "It isn't going to go away, Cowboy."

Startled by the use of his nickname—David nearly never used it—Jack glanced at his selling partner. "I know that, Davey. But these papes ain't gonna go away either—unless we sell 'em."

David nodded and put his papers back on his shoulder. "Let's do it."

**********

Racetrack smiled to himself, one hand in his pocket, imagining the wonderful smoothness of the coins there. Soon there would be some. As soon as the race ended. _God bless New York,_ he thought happily. _There ain't another place like it in all the world._

_BANG! The horses were off. Race stood up on his seat, leaving his pile of papers beside him, and screamed as loudly as he could for his horse. She was fast, yes. Faster than the others. He had bet against her several times over the past week or so, and learned that lesson the hard way. But this time, he knew she was fastest. He knew she would win. He knew he would win money._

But then… No! She was falling behind. That awful black horse was gaining… Race's horse wasn't going to win. Yes, she was! No, she wasn't! She was! She wasn't! Was! Wasn't…

Didn't.

Another lost race. Ah well, add it to the tally. Race hopped off of the seat and moved to collect his newspapers—only to find that they were gone. All of them. He looked everywhere around the seat, shoving his way around people and their ankles. There had been thirty-seven papers there. And now, none. He cursed in English and Italian, ignoring the disgusted looks he got.

He left. There was no point in standing around the stands with no betting money and no newspapers to sell.

Outside, he began the slow walk away. He wasn't sure precisely _where he was going, but it had to be either the tavern where he occasionally gambled or the lodging house. Wait. He couldn't go back to the lodging house. He had no money for Kloppman. Again. Ha! How could it matter? He wasn't even out of debt with the lodging house owner anyway. What was another night's worth of owed money?_

"Boy!"

Race, long accustomed to being called nearly anything but his name, turned. "Yeah?"

"Where's the pape?" a burly man asked, about to enter the track area. "Ya always got 'em here. Where's they?"

Race was also long accustomed to gauging situations. Was the man a threat? Was he the type to pull brass knuckles for not getting his paper? As accustomed as Race was, though, to accurately gauging situations, his mouth never worked in tandem with his mind. "Didja check under your fat rear?"

The man froze for an instant, sorting out what Race had just said. Race too was still sorting out what he had just said. _Oh shiiii—_

Race took off at a dead run, the man not far behind. However, in addition to answering to just about any name he heard and gauging the dangers in situations, Race was also well accustomed to running from Sheepshead and various taverns. He knew he could make it away safely.

But he still didn't have any money.

The thought didn't worry him excessively, but it was certainly something to think about before returning to the lodging house for the night. Kloppman had told him that one more night in debt meant he'd be locked out. Race didn't believe it—Kloppman'd never do that—but he felt bad for putting the old man out at all.

A glance back told him that the man had stopped chasing him and had disappeared around a corner, so Race slowed to a walk. It was going to be a long one. Walking from Sheepshead to Manhattan always took longer when his pockets were empty. Wait—no—Race sprinted off suddenly and managed to latch himself to the back of a carriage heading in the right direction. Maybe it wouldn't take so long now. Certainly less tiring to ride than to walk.

Race had to grip the edges of the carriage step on which he was perched, but the action was so familiar to him that it had become mechanical, and he trusted his mind to wander as his fingers gripped on tight. In this manner, he very nearly fell asleep on the way, and, it was lucky that the carriage was indeed headed for Manhattan.

"Race!"

The sudden yell jarred him from his reverie, and he jerked awake and automatically hopped from the carriage, glancing around briefly to be sure of his whereabouts. _Manhattan, good._ _How long was I asleep? _Then he turned to the speaker. "Spot."

The familiar sneer of a smile crossed Spot Conlon's face. "Havin' some trouble, Racey? You's back awful early."

"Nah," Race said, waving a dismissive hand. "Just the usual."

Spot nodded toward Race's empty arms. "Where's your papes?"

"Where's yours?" Race returned. "An' whadda'ya doin' this side a' the Bridge, anyways?"

Spot's sneersmile widened. "Sold 'em and visitin'," he answered, then repeated, "Where's your papes?"

"Dunno." Race shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Stolen, I s'ppose. Saves me from eatin' them."

"Also 'saves' ya from sellin' them."

Race waved a hand. "Little details, Spot. Not a problem."

"'Cept that you's a newsie."

The Italian laughed. "So they tell me."

"Ain't seen ya for a while," Spot said, tapping his cane idly against his leg. "Y'ain't been to Brooklyn to visit lately. Couple a' me boys's lookin' for ya to have a poker game or somethin'."

"I's been busy."

Spot tilted his head toward Race's empty arms again. "Yeah, I can tell. Ya lose your papes often?"

"Nah," Race said. "Only when I's in the mood to go a little broke."

"You's a gambler, Race," Spot said, raising his eyebrows. "You's never wantin' to go a little broke."

"Sure, sure." Race lifted his hat, smoothed his hair, and set his hat back down. "Heya, Spot. Can I ask ya somethin'?"

"What's that?"

"I's been hearing things," Race said. "'Bout'ch'you. That you's avoidin' 'Hattan 'cause a' Jack."

"Jack?"

"Ya know. The kid that thinks he's in charge a' 'Hattan."

"Oh, _that_ Jack." Spot said.

"Yeah," Race said, sticking a cigarette in his mouth and wishing it was a cigar. "That Jack. The only Jack we'd be talkin' 'bout right now."

"How's Jacky-boy been treatin' ya?" Spot asked abruptly

"Huh?" Race chewed on the end of the cigarette. It didn't hold up to chewing as well as a cigar.

"He been awright?"

"Sure," Race replied, puzzled.

"I just don't know anymore wit' him," Spot said slowly. "Can't trust him, ya know?"

"Why not?"

"Aw, come on, Race. Y'ain't stupid. You's seen what he done durin' the strike."

"Whadda'ya mean?"

"Maybe you _is_ stupid," Spot said, snorting. He shoved his cane back into his belt loop. "Ya saw how he sold out to the scabbers. You's was there."

"He came back."

"He came back," Spot repeated and snorted again. "He came back? Why'd he even got to come back, Racey? Think 'bout it. He _left. He __left for the dough Pulitzer gave 'em. He __left the newsies for that dough." He scowled and shook his head. "An' ya thinks I can trust him now. I can't. Don't see how nobody can."_

"Spot, he came _back_, though," Race protested. "He knows he done a bad thing in leavin', so's he came back."

"But why'd he leave in the first place?" Spot asked.

That made Race stop. "Whadda'ya mean?"

"Did he tell ya why he left?"

"N-no…" Race's brow furrowed.

"Then why?"

"I guess they threatened him."

Spot laughed mockingly. "They _threatened_ Jack Kelly, and that made him go scab? They been threatenin' us all our lives. Didja forget?"

"Awright, then why'd he do it?" Race asked.

"I's already told ya," Spot said. "Dough."

"He wouldn't a'—"

"Race." Spot looked at him seriously. "He _did."_

Race frowned at his boots. "But Jack—" He broke himself off this time.

"Brooklyn's still there for ya if you's needin' it," Spot said quietly.

When Race looked up, though, to ask him exactly what he meant by that, Spot was gone. But it didn't matter. Race knew. He knew the truth now: the truth about Jack, about the strike, about the scabber incident. He _knew_. And he had to decide what to do now.


	2. The View from Brooklyn

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies, the characters, the actors, the music, the script, etc. That's all Disney's. The only thing I own is the story I've written here. Please do not move this story from this site. It only belongs here. Anyroad, hope you like it (my first _Newsies_fic!); let me know what you think!**

**Chapter 2: The View from Brooklyn**

"The usual," Jack said to the man at the distribution desk. It was refreshing not to see Weasel and his two goons there every morning. The new guy—Jack still saw him only as the new guy, though he'd been there for two months—shoved a hundred papers across to Jack and gave him a smile.

"Good sellin', Cowboy," he said as Jack took the papers. He said the same thing to every newsie, a sort of well-wishing.

"Thanks."

As he perused the paper, he could hear Race talking to the new guy. "Fifty."

"Good sellin', Racetrack," the man replied, and Jack turned his head to offer Race his own word of good luck, but Race didn't look at Jack. He just left the center, shouldering his newspapers as he walked.

"Huh," Jack said.

"Good sellin', Crutchy," the new guy was saying, and Crutchy hobbled down the steps and paused next to Jack.

"How's the headline?" he asked.

"Not bad," Jack replied, flipping a page. "Can squeeze a sellin' line or two outta this pape."

"Good sellin', Davey," the new guy said, and Jack startled, turning around to see David coming over, his own hundred papers tucked under his arm.

"Morning," David said quietly.

"Didn't 'spect to see ya here," Jack told him.

"I can't quit," David said slowly. Jack and Crutchy both looked at him, and he reddened slightly under their gazes. "Papa thinks I'm at school. You can't tell him."

Jack nodded quickly; the warning was meant for him, anyway. He still had dinner at the Jacobs' home once a week or so. "Won't say a word. Ready to go?"

"Yeah," David said.

The two set out together, as usual, lifting their papers into the air and calling out headline after headline. David, Jack was pleased to notice, seemed more like his old self. He peddled the papers with the enthusiasm he had developed since the end of the strike—but also with that certain degree of inhibition he'd always had. The funny thing was that the inhibition had become David's selling personality, just as Jack's boisterousness, Racetrack's smooth talk, Mush's pleading face, and Crutchy's leg had become their respective selling personalities. David, Jack marveled, had become a true newsie.

**********

"Seen Spot lately?" Jack asked, as he and David took a short break from selling, standing on the side of the street by a small restaurant.

David looked at him, curious. "Haven't seen him since the strike ended. Two months ago, I guess. Why? Are you expecting him?"

"Nah, not really," Jack replied, lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply. "Just ain't like him to disappear too much."

"He's disappeared?"

"Nah…" Jack said. "Well, just for some people."

"What do you mean?"

Jack furrowed his brow and tried to think of how to put it diplomatically. "Well, y'see…"

"What?"

"They say Spot's been avoidin' me." Jack kicked his heel listlessly against the brick wall of the restaurant. "Ever since the strike."

"Why?"

"'Cause…'cause of the scabber thing. They say he ain't too happy 'bout that."

"He didn't seem very mad at you when we won," David pointed out, a feeling of discomfort making him shift uneasily. He didn't like talking about that particular incident. "He was plenty happy then. Seemed fine after you…came back."

"Ya don't know Spot so good," Jack said. "He's like that. If there's somethin' he's gotta do, he lets all the other things go, and does it. Like the strike. He _had to be nice to hold the whole thing together. If Spot had lost trust in me, all a' New York woulda. But now that's over, he can do what he likes."_

"I don't think I understand," David said.

"People's sayin' Spot's mad over the scabber thing," Jack explained, looking frustrated. "He was pretendin' not to be earlier 'cause he had to support me wit' the strike. But now he don't have to anymore."

"It's a rumor?" David asked.

"Yeah." Jack frowned. "I's gonna go to Brooklyn this afternoon. Ya wanna come wit' me?"

"I can't," David said. "I have to get home right away, so Mama thinks I went to school."

Jack nodded briskly, dropping his cigarette and grounding it out with his heel. "Right. Then we better get back to sellin', huh, Dave?"

In response, David flashed a smile at him, pushed off of the wall, and lifted a newspaper in the air, ready to carry the banner.

**********

"Why's we goin' to Brooklyn, Jack?" Blink asked, as they stepped into Brooklyn territory.

"Just goin' to see Spot," Jack answered, glancing back at Kid Blink and Itey. Good fighters, if needed, and they were both done with their respective selling jobs for the day.

"Why?"

"Just 'cause, awright?" Jack replied, without looking backward. He glared ahead as if he were certain to find Spot, just happening to be standing there.

"Kelly." A tall, snub-nosed boy stepped in front of the three newsies, effectively blocking them. "Whadda'ya think you's doin' here?"

Jack smiled tightly. "Goin' to see Spot Conlon, Bricks. You's got a problem wit' that, ain't my business. I just needs to talk to Spot."

"Spot ain't around," Bricks said, glancing beyond Jack to Blink and Itey. "He's out doin' stuff."

"Just tell him Jack Kelly's gotta talk wit' him."

But Bricks was shaking his head. "No can do, Kelly. Spot's a busy guy. He don't got time to see ya."

"He can tell me that himself, then," Jack said.

Bricks shrugged. "He _could_. If he wanted to talk wit' you. But he don't. So you's can just cheese it. Awright?"

Jack took a step forward, but Blink put a hand on his shoulder, and the Manhattan leader looked past Bricks to see another Brooklyn newsie jogging over, two newspapers still in his hand. "Hey, Kelly. What'ch'ya doin' in these parts?"

"Goin' to see Spot, Beef. Ya got somethin' to say 'bout that?" Jack glanced back at Bricks, whose face was unreadable.

"Spot ain't gonna see ya, Cowboy," Roastbeef said, smiling scornfully.

"An' why's that?" Jack demanded. "I ain't here to fight wit' him or nothin'. I just wants to talk."

"Spot's a busy guy," Bricks repeated, his own face still plain and blank.

"That ain't no answer!" Jack told him. "Spot too scared to show his face? What's wrong wit' him!?"

"Ya wanna know the truth, Cowboy? Huh?" Roastbeef leaned in close to Jack and hissed, "Spot don't wanna see ya. He don't talk to no scabbers."

Jack looked for a second as though he would rather like to punch Roastbeef squarely in the face. But he didn't. He leaned back and his face twisted almost comically, and then he laughed aloud. "I's a scabber?" He looked Roastbeef directly in the eyes and asked, "Do I _look _like a scabber to ya, Beef? Huh?" He laughed again. "Who told ya that?"

There was a long pause. Then, perfectly seriously, "Spot."

Jack stopped laughing abruptly and straightened. "Spot?"

Roastbeef's mouth twisted cruelly. "Yeah, Spot Conlon. Ya know him?"

Taking a step backward, toward Blink and Itey, Jack said, "I thought I did." He looked back at his two Manhattan companions, but they looked just as surprised as he felt. "But maybe not," he added in a low voice. "Maybe not."

"That's a sad story," Roastbeef said mockingly. "But you's just gonna have to take it somewhere else. 'Cause Spot don't want the trash a' 'Hattan pollutin' the streets a' Brooklyn."

Jack lunged at him, but Blink and Itey grabbed him from behind, pulling him backward. Jack shook free of their grip and glared at Roastbeef and Bricks. "You tell Spot that he better stop actin' like a coward an' face me!"

"C'mon, Cowboy," Itey said, pulling gently on Jack's shoulder. "Let's go, c'mon. They ain't gonna let'ch'ya see Spot. Let's just go."

"He's right." Blink put a hand on Jack's other shoulder. "C'mon, let's go back to 'Hattan before it gets too late. C'mon."

Shrugging free from his friends, Jack gave the Brooklyn newsies a final glare and turned, walking away from them and away from Spot—wherever he was. Blink and Itey hurried to catch up. They exchanged worried looks when they heard exactly what mumbled words Jack was saying. It wasn't like him to swear so much, and neither really understood _why Spot would refuse a meeting with Jack. Jack himself didn't understand._

*********

**Shout-Outs _(never done these before…this is the first fandom I've been in that really does them…what fun!)_**__

**Harlem: My first reviewer! Poor Race, poor Davey. Yes indeed. Things'll be interesting…**

**Arlene: I'm glad you liked the beginning! Yep, there will definitely be a couple of different plotlines here…**

**JustDuck****: lol, thanks! Your review cracked me up. Sure, I'll write some more.**

**B. (studentnumber24601): Thanks for the review and the constructive criticism. You are truly the 'groovy' one! Did this chapter work better?**

**Thistle: Here you go: chapter 2! *holds it up excitedly* Hope you liked it.**

**TXMedic****: The scabber thing always bothered me too. I thought, 'no way was that the end of that…especially not for Spot and Race. There's definitely more of a story there waiting to come out.'**

**Angelfish: Wow, you're supportive! Thanks! Yeah, Spot cannot really be blamed here. Poor guy.**

**Alarice****: I hope it lives up to your expectations! Thanks for the vote of confidence.**

**Hope: Hey, there's a lot of you (re: the little dialogue). lol. Thanks for the review! **


	3. Dealing with the Truth

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies, the characters, the actors, the music, the script, etc. That's all Disney's. The only thing I own is the story I've written here. Please do not move this story from this site. It only belongs here. Anyroad, hope you like it (my first _Newsies _fic!); let me know what you think!**

**Chapter 3: Dealing with the Truth**

Jack knew every painfully scrawled signature in the ledger book. Every single one. Even if it were simply an 'X,' he could assign a face to the letter: a face, a name, a newsie. Some of them were long gone; some were still at the lodging house. Boys like Skittery, Kid Blink, Mush, and Crutchy had been there for years and years. Almost as long as Jack. He liked to read the book from time to time—the others didn't really understand when he told them that it was just to keep from forgetting…although he knew he'd never forget.

The others littered the lodging house foyer's floor. A few of them had set up a marbles game, headed by Boots, and everyone was crowded around a small section of the floor. Whenever one of them won a marble, he would hoot excitedly, and Jack would look up from the ledger book, smiling slightly. He could look at any newsie in the foyer and know which signature was his.

Snipeshooter had just won one of Jake's best marbles when Racetrack appeared in the doorway. Jack looked up from the book again. "Hey, Race," he said. "Kloppman's lookin' for someone to run somethin' over to the post office for him, an' we's volunteered ya."

"Post office ain't open," Race muttered, not moving from the doorway.

"Right. Tomorrow, before ya go to Sheepshead."

"Why don't'ch'ya do it yourself?" Race demanded.

Jack frowned and started to answer, but, looking up from the marbles, Snoddy cut him off. "'Cause you wasn't here, Race. So's we all volunteered ya for it."

"That too hard for ya, Race?" Jack asked. "Too much work to ask a' ya? Huh?"

"Oh no, your honor," Race replied, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "I'd be happy to do anythin' for ya, your honor. Maybe…maybe I can shine your shoes for ya too, while I's at it. Get'ch'ya somethin' to drink?"

Jack just looked at him. _Your honor?_ he wondered. What had been wrong with Racetrack over the past week? He hadn't been acting like himself at all. Jack willed himself not to get mad at the other newsie. "Nah," he said slowly. "Just deliver the letter to the post office. That's it."

"Thanks, then," Race said. "An' don't worry 'bout it; next time, I won't worry ya none, your honor. I's just gonna deal wit' your office boys." He tossed a nod in Snoddy's direction.

Abruptly, Jack closed the ledger book, jumped down off of Kloppman's desk, and headed for the door, where Race still stood unflinchingly. When he got there, Race stepped calmly aside, and Jack glanced back into the room. All of the others were watching him now. "I's just goin' outside for a bit. Take a walk."

The others nodded, and Jack left. Race walked through the foyer. "Do this, do that," he muttered. "Who does he think he is, the king a' New York?"

"Pipe down," Skittery said. "He just asked ya to deliver somethin' for Kloppman."

Race looked at him, frustrated, and said, "Why don't none a' ya see nothin'?"

"Look, don't worry 'bout it," Mush said. "I can deliver the letter for ya. Tomorrow mornin'. Me an' Blink's sellin' together. We'll take it. Ya don't gotta do it."

"Don't bother," Race said. "Don't matter none to me." He walked around the marbles game and headed up the stairs.

Blink glanced at Mush as soon as Race left. "What's wrong wit' him?"

"Dunno," Mush replied. "Don't seem real happy."

It was true. It had been a week now of this bizarre behavior from Racetrack. He hadn't been happy—hadn't been interested in poker, in joking, in being with the other newsies—for a whole week. He hadn't been himself.

"He ain't nice to Jack no more," Snitch said.

"Glum an' dumb," Skittery agreed, and the others groaned and rolled their eyes. That was _Race's_ favorite insult for Skittery.

**********

"So, David." Mayer Jacobs sat back in his chair and looked across the table at his eldest son, not yet eating. "You've been back at school for a week now. How is it going?"

A week. A whole week. David nervously set his spoon down and tried to meet his father's eyes. Why was it so hard to lie to him? "Good—I mean well. It's going well. I'm not behind or anything. Same place as everyone else."

"Except maybe a little richer?"

"Excuse me?" David asked confusedly.

Mayer placed a small rag on the table, by the central plate that held the bread. As he put it down, the edges of the rag fell apart and pennies and nickels spilled out. "What's this, David?"

_Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no… His newspaper money. "What's this?" he repeated weakly. Sarah and Les were both looking at him. They had known. But David knew his mother must have found the rag. Neither Sarah nor Les had told on him; they wouldn't do that. They were probably looking at him with support, or maybe with pity. Maybe both. But David couldn't look up at them to see. He couldn't look up from the rag in the center of the table._

"David." Esther said evenly. "Your father asked you a question."

David dragged his eyes up to meet his father's. "Yes sir," he said.

"How has school been going?" Mayer repeated.

"I'm sorry, Papa," David said quietly. When his father didn't respond, he continued, "You don't understand. I couldn't quit. I couldn't quit being a newsie. It's just what I am."

"No," Mayer said sharply. "What you are, David, is a schoolboy. You are to go to _school_. That was our deal. When I went back to the factory, you would go back to school."

"But I don't belong there anymore!" David looked to his mother for support, but she shook her head.

"You do belong at school," she said. "You're a boy. You have plenty of time to work later. For now, you study. You go to school."

"But Mama, I—"

"That's enough," Mayer said. David turned his gaze to him. "You lied to us, David. I thought I taught you to tell the truth."

"You taught us to be loyal to our friends!"

"And to be loyal to your word," Mayer said. "You gave me your word, David. And you just sat here, at this table, and _lied_. You told me that school was going well." David bowed his head, frustrated and caught. Mayer exhaled deeply. "You're finished with dinner. Go to the bedroom."

Startled, David looked up. "But Papa—"

"Now." The tone was calm, but it brooked no nonsense. David stood and walked slowly into the bedroom. 

Esther looked toward her husband. "Should I go talk to him?"

"No," Mayer said. "I'll go." He rose grimly and turned to the bedroom. Both Les and Sarah watched, both silent, both uncertain. Les was unconsciously moving his spoon in his soup, sloshing it gently so that it didn't spill, and Sarah had a corner of the table cloth in her hands, twisting it uneasily.

Esther went to her husband. "Don't be too hard on him, Mayer."

"It's all right," Mayer said. "I'm just going to talk with him. But he can't lie to us, Esther. You know that."

He embraced her briefly, and she leaned gratefully into it before pulling back and nodding shortly. Mayer kissed her cheek, a reassuring gesture, and disappeared into the bedroom after his son.

David was sitting on the edge of his parents' bed—because it was the one farthest in the corner, farthest from everyone else, farthest from the problems and the newsies and school—looking at the floor.

"David?"

"I'm sorry I lied to you," he said forcedly, looking up to his father. "But I'm not sorry I'm a newsie."

"David…" Mayer sat down slowly beside David. "I'm not asking you to give up your friends. I would never do that to you. But I _am telling you that you need to go back to school. We made a deal, and you are going to keep your end of it."_

"Jack and the others—they don't get to go to school." David couldn't keep the slight mocking tone out of his voice. "I have to go to school so I'll be better than those street rats. So I won't be as horrible and dirty as they are."

"That is _enough_, David," Mayer said sharply. "That's not what I mean, and you know it. You are not to speak to me like that—not to speak to _anyone_ like that."

David looked down, suddenly feeling guilty. He'd never spoken like that to his father before. Never. "I-I'm sorry. It's just…not fair."

"There are a lot of things in life that aren't fair," Mayer said. "But we take what chances we _can _take. I know that's hard to understand. You going to school doesn't hurt the newsies. But it helps you. School is your opportunity."

"I'd rather be a newsie."

"You loved school," Mayer reminded him. "Don't you remember?"

"That was before I realized there was more to life than books and studying. It's out there, Papa," David said, gesturing at the window, at the street so far below. "It's with the people and the newsies and the real world. I can read all about it in the books, but that's nothing compared to _living it. To selling papers, to striking with the others…that's where it is."_

"Your mother was right though," Mayer said. "You have plenty of time for that part of life later. But you need to go to school now. You are still a child, David, and you're _my_ child. And I'm telling you that you're going back to school. Tomorrow. No more putting it off. You're going back. You'll be a working man someday. But not tomorrow, not the next day. Not until you've finished with school. Understand?"****

"But, Papa…" David could feel tears in the back of his throat. But he wouldn't let them out. Never. "Please…"

Mayer shook his head. "No." His voice softened. "David. I hate doing this to you; I hate feeling like I'm taking something you love away from you. I know you've found people you like, a job you enjoy." He paused. "This isn't about the other newsboys, understand? It's fine that you're friends with them, that Jack comes over for dinner, that you spend time with them—outside of school. You don't have to stop being friends with them. This isn't about that. This is about you lying to your mother and me, and about how you need to keep your end of our deal about school."

"Yes sir," David said quietly. He hated it. He hated it with all of his heart. But he knew his father was right. Going to school was the right thing to do—he was just so frightened about losing the world of the newsies, the friends, the laughter, the fun…

Standing, Mayer gave his son a half-smile. "School isn't an ending, David. It's a beginning. I only wish that the other boys could have the same opportunity. But just because they can't doesn't mean you can't. I know it sounds cruel, but it's the truth, David. It doesn't mean that you're _better or that they're _worse_. It simply means that you make the most of the opportunities you receive."_

"Yes sir," David repeated, forcing himself to meet his father's eyes. There was sympathy there—and love—but David didn't want to see it at that moment. He wanted to see nothing, to hear nothing, to feel nothing. His father put a hand on David's shoulder for a minute, then gave it a slight squeeze and left the room to go back to dinner.

When Mayer had gone, David slid his boots off and pulled his feet up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his knees, his fingers clutching the thin material of his pants as though it were his last stronghold in the whole world. His stomach rumbled slightly, but his thoughts went quietly and painfully to Jack and the other newsies. How could he tell them that he was letting them down?

**********

The marbles game hadn't really ended, but had sort of diffused. The older newsies had split off from the younger ones and begun a poker game by the staircase. The younger ones had split up a little too, some still playing marbles, others starting their own card games or other little activities. Jack came back into the lodging house, his face more relaxed, and he made his way through the smaller newsies to sit on the stairs by the older ones, watching silently.

"Ha! I's beat'cha!" Mush crowed, raising his arms in a victory V over his head. He didn't normally win at poker. His every card reflected in his face, and the others knew how to read him perfectly. But tonight, he had won, for reasons beyond any of the others' comprehension. It was nothing short of a miracle. "I's beat'cha! Lookit that!"

"Aw, you's just lucky Race ain't playin'," Skittery told him, angrily shoving the small pile of pennies, candy, and cigarettes toward Mush.

"An' _you_'s just a sore loser," Kid Blink said.

"Am not!" Skittery protested.

"Yeah, yeah," jeered Snitch. "A real bum 'bout it."

"Race woulda been cheatin' anyways," Jack said, fiddling with his cowboy hat and reclining against the staircase. He tilted his head to the side, stretching his neck, and leaned forward. "Ya gonna deal another game?"

Blink nodded. "Ya want in?"

"Sure."

Mush was now doing a silly victory dance across the foyer of the lodging house, much to the amusement of the younger newsies, who looked up from their various games to watch him. Always smiling, dancing, singing, laughing, sharing…Mush was one of their favorite older newsies. Just as they each looked up to Jack with a sort of idolatry, they all loved Mush for his fun.

"Didja win, Mushy?" one of the youngest ones asked excitedly.

"Mush, ya want in on the next game?" Blink called from across the room.

"Ya _betcha!" Mush said cheerfully. "Gotta defend me title, huh?" He danced goofily around a few of the younger kids and hopped nimbly over the cards Skittery was now shuffling to his spot on the bottom stair. As Skittery began dealing, he raised his bottle of soda—saved from an excursion to Tibby's a few days prior—and said, "Here's to me!"_

"Mush…" Blink groaned good-naturedly.

"What?" Mush asked, feigning innocence. Snitch gave him a slight elbow in the ribs, but accidentally caught him off guard, and instead of going into Mush's mouth, the soda spilled neatly onto Jack's bandana.

The older newsie leapt up. "Oh man!" he yelped, startled, his hand shooting to his bandana. "What was that!?"

"Mushy," Skittery said, laughing, his mood considerably better all of a sudden.

"I's sorry, Jack!" Mush said instantly. "I's sorry."

"Aw, s'okay, Mush." Jack shook his head more in amusement than anything else. "Look, I's just gonna go clean it now. It'll be fine." He smiled at Mush's worried expression and went upstairs. "Don't be startin' that game wit'out me!" he called back over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bunkroom.

*********

**Shout-Outs**__

**Alarice****: Thanks, mate! I've been struggling along with the accent and slang and such. But it's fun sort of challenge!**

**Thistle: lol, something tells me that Spot wouldn't much like being shaken. But you shall see what's up with him. With everyone, actually. Yeah.**

**Angelfish: You're feeling the story? Excellent, excellent. Emotion is what life is all about. And so that is the fun of reading…and writing, too.**

**B.: Ah, I'm glad this worked better! Yes, yes, there are definitely problems with Spot and Jack. And Race and Jack. And poor, poor Davey…**

**Harlem: Yeah, those Brooklyn newsies weren't the nicest guys, were they? But they had their orders from Spot… And that crazy Davey. Who knew he had a rebellious streak? Not I, not I.**

**Arlene: Definitely put _Newsies on your weekend to do list! :D Yeah, I don't think Scabber!Jack (haha) really knows precisely what to do about this situation. I'm glad the reworked accent is sounding better. It was too much at first! (and lol, the "Poor Jack" chapter indeed!)_**


	4. The Confrontation

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies, the characters, the actors, the music, the script, etc. That's all Disney's. The only thing I own is the story I've written here. Please do not move this story from this site. It only belongs here. Anyroad, hope you like it (my first _Newsies _fic!); let me know what you think!**

**Chapter 4: The Confrontation**

Jack walked into the bunkroom to clean his bandana and saw Racetrack lying listlessly on his bed. Alone in the room. With a poker game going on just down the stairs. _Hmm.__ He dropped the soiled bandana on his bunk and walked over. "Whatcha doin'?"_

"Thinkin'."

"'Bout what?"

"Whadda'ya?" Race demanded. "Me muddah? I don't gots to tell ya nothin'."

"What's wrong wit' ya lately?" Jack returned sharply. "You's been actin' like a scabber or somethin'."

_Look who's talking, Race thought, though he didn't give voice to that thought. "Spot wants me to come back to Brooklyn." Race said it slowly, deliberately. It wasn't the exact truth, but he knew it would hurt Jack. And it did. Because for some reason, all Race wanted to do at that moment was make Jack hurt. Make him hurt for leaving the newsies when they had needed him the most._

"He does, does he?" Jack knew about Race's history in Brooklyn. It wasn't a secret; all the newsies knew. How Race had started his career as a newsie in Brooklyn, one of Spot's boys. How Race had always been Spot's second correspondent—after Jack, of course—after coming to Manhattan.

But why had Race come to Manhattan? Jack wasn't sure; he'd never asked. With the newsies, it was always a don't ask, don't tell policy when it came to their pasts. But Race had been a Brooklyn newsie and then changed to Manhattan; he did know that. Since Race had come, of course, his loyalty had gone to Jack first—Jack was the leader of the Manhattan boys, and Race was a Manhattan boy.

As a matter of fact, Jack couldn't think of a single clash between them. Race had always deferred to Jack. Always. Even on occasions when Spot seemed uncertain about agreeing with Jack, Race hadn't. It was the way things worked. Race was loyal to his borough, and Jack was the leader of his borough. So he was loyal to Jack. Always.

"Yeah," Race said, something that reminded Jack of someone else's sneer crossing his face. "He does."

"Why's that?" Jack asked, struggling to keep his anger in check.

"'Cause I's better off there."

"Why?"

"Whadda'ya care, huh?" Race raised his eyebrows. "Maybe ya ain't everythin' you's cracked up to be, Kelly."

Jack was completely confused by the seemingly unprovoked conversation, but internally, his confusion was all processed and concentrated into frustration. "Yeah," he said. "Whadda'I care anyways?" He scuffed a foot against the wood floor and flexed his fingers. "You's the one who's actin' like a bummer. Whadda'I care?"

This didn't seem to be the response Race had been going for. He rolled over onto his stomach and glared at the mattress. "Ya'd know all 'bout that, huh, Jack?"

"What?" Jack's voice took on a strange disgusted tone. He didn't understand. He had no idea why Race was acting like this. "Whadda'ya talkin' 'bout, Racetrack?"

Race hit the mattress with a fist once, glaring harder at it. He mumbled something incomprehensible.

"Ya wanna run that by me again, Higgins?" Jack demanded, feeling his temper start to slip. "'Cause I can't understand a word you's sayin'… Think maybe I ain't missin' much worth the time, though."

Race snorted. "Spot's right!" he said bitterly. "He's right 'bout'ch'you. Once a scabber, always a scabber, ain't that right, _Cowboy_?" He spat out the nickname.

"Don't be talkin' 'bout stuff ya don't understand," Jack shot back. "An' ya _don't understand 'bout that day!"_

"Pretty handy ya never talk 'bout it!" Race told him fiercely. "You's hidin' somethin'. I ain't stupid, Jack!"

"I can't tell ya!" Jack yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then, he checked himself and lowered his voice—the last thing he needed was the others coming in. "It don't concern ya, so's you can just lay off."

"Ya can't even be trusted," Race said. "I don't even know who you is anymore. Ya one a' us? Or you's a scabber? Ya can't be both."

"Ya seemed fine when I came back," Jack said gruffly. "I don't see how's it's changed so fast." Then he did. He knew how. He knew why. "It's Spot," he said. "You's listenin' to Spot. He don't know nothin'!"

Race got off of his bunk and faced off with Jack furiously. "_Listen, Jack. Spot ain't stupid neither. He's known ya longer than anyone, an' he knows you's not one a' us no more!"_

Jack blanched. Spot had said that? Yes, the two had known each other for years, since Jack had first come to Manhattan and Spot to Brooklyn. Their paths had crossed many times, but never in a bad way. They had never had a fight in their lives. Not one. There was a level of mutual respect that neither boy had ever broken. It hurt, hearing that Spot had said that. Race wouldn't lie—all right, he did lie a lot—but he'd never lie about something like this. It was Spot who had let Jack down.

As if reading the other's mind, Race said suddenly, maliciously, "Ya let him down, Jack. Ya let all a' us down."

Before he could stop himself, Jack's fingers had clenched tightly against his palm, and his arm jumped out, slamming his fist against Racetrack's face so hard that the smaller boy stumbled backward and fell against his bunk, hitting the floor. Race swore loudly in Italian, but he didn't stand up, didn't move to punch Jack back. He stayed on the ground.

A slight sound behind Jack made them both turn to the door, just in time to see a familiar form slip back out the doorway. Mush. It was Jack's turn to curse. He glared at Race, as though the entire thing were his fault.

"Ya wants to go back to Brooklyn, go. Get outta here. But'ch'ya can never come back, got it? Ya leave, an' we ain't takin' ya back."

Race hauled himself to his feet, holding the wooden post of the bunkbed with one hand, the other covering a rapidly growing bruise under his left eye. With as much dignity as he could muster, he went to the small table beside his bed and pulled out his beloved deck of cards and his dice, wrapping them all into his spare shirt and tying the bundle off. Jack watched, his face blank.

Then, finished, Race slung the bundle over his shoulder, and, with his free hand shielding his injury from view, pushed past Jack and went out the door and down the stairs. Jack followed, his face still blank, but with a strange taunt quality now.

"Hiya, Race," Crutchy looked up from where he was watching a few of the boys play poker. "Ya wanna join the game?"

"Nah," Race replied. "I gotta go somewheres."

"Where?"

Race went to the front door of the boarding house before looking back—his eyes sweeping across Mush, who sat in a corner alone—at Specs, who'd asked the question. "Brooklyn."

And then, he was gone.

*********

**Shout-Outs**__

**Braids: Hey! Thanks for reviewing; I'm so happy to hear you like the story. Fear not, Davey's not out of the story. Not by a long shot. Eep! Don't hurt Spot, lol!**

**Shakeseegirl****: The characters are all right? Good! I'm trying really hard to make them the way I saw them in the movie. Thank you so much for the encouragement. :D**

**Thistle: Mush is a sweetie, isn't he? Yeah, that talk with Spot really stuck with Race, didn't it? Treading dangerous waters here…**

**Angelfish: lol! I'm glad you like it! Here's…chapter 4!... :D Hope you liked it all right!**

**B.: Wow. You made me smile! I'm thrilled that you liked that last chapter with the Jacobs family; you're absolutely right that they're fun to write. They feel very real and lovable. Like…the 1899 Cleavers…okay… ;} …Race's bitchiness…oh yeah! lolol…**


	5. The Aftermath

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies, the characters, the actors, the music, the script, etc. That's all Disney's. The only thing I own is the story I've written here. Please do not move this story from this site. It only belongs here. Anyroad, hope you like it (my first _Newsies _fic!); let me know what you think!**

**Chapter 5: The Aftermath**

Brooklyn was every bit as tough as Race remembered. After a day of selling papers, he had twice as many bruises as he would normally have after a typical Manhattan day…and was so…terribly…exhausted.

He hadn't even gone to Sheepshead, although he was now technically closer to the races than he had been in Manhattan. That would be the first place others would come looking for him—Mush or Blink or Skittery, maybe—and Race wasn't ready to see any of them. So, although he doubted that they would indeed come over to Brooklyn, he decided to avoid Sheepshead for his first few weeks back in Brooklyn.

First. Few. Weeks. One day had already been so long…

When he finally finished selling and dragged himself back to the waterfront, where the other newsies were leaping into the water—despite that it looked absolutely freezing to Race—practicing with their slingshots, messing around, Spot hopped down from his favorite vantage point and sauntered over.

"How was sellin'?" he asked.

"Fine," Race answered, letting his knees give out and dropping to sit on the edge of the pier.

Spot smirked as he sat down next to Race. "'Hattan's made ya soft."

"Cheese off," Race said tiredly.

"Can't think of a better comeback?" Spot asked, looking delighted at the idea of Race being exhausted by his beloved Brooklyn and—best of all—out of insults.

"It's hard to come up wit' somethin' that's good enough for your ugly mug when I's so tired."

Spot whapped him in the back of the head, and Race had to scrabble at the wooden planks of the pier for an instant to keep himself from falling into the water. "Ow!"

"Told ya 'Hattan made ya soft!"

"An' Brooklyn's made ya uglier… Ow!"

This time, Spot succeeded in knocking him off the pier, and the feared leader of Brooklyn stood, laughing, to watch as a shivering Race climbed up the rope ladder to get back onto the pier.

"That's _cold_!"

"You's ain't s'pposed to go swimmin' this late in the season, Racetrack," Spot said, smirking away.

When Race looked at him, he couldn't help but start to smile himself. It wasn't worth getting mad anyhow. If he got in a fight with Spot, he'd just end up in the water again. "Now ya tell me," he said, mock-seriously. "There goes me dream a' swimmin' to a warmer state for the winter."

"Dumb," Spot commented, then paused, seeming to consider Race's appearance. "Ya look pretty bad."

"What's that s'pposed to mean?"

"Looks like ya took a soakin'."

He had several new bruises, but self-consciously, Race put a hand to his left eye. "Brooklyn ain't for the weak-hearted."

"Ya came wit' that one," Spot said, sitting back down and swinging his legs over the edge of the pier. Race silently cursed the other boy's attentiveness.

"What can I say?" he said, trying to make light of it all. "'Hattan can be rough too, believe it or not."

"Jack Kelly can be rough," Spot said quietly. He grabbed his slingshot and shot a chip of wood from a plank of the pier across the water.

Race watched the little piece of wood splash almost indiscernibly into the water, far away. He couldn't see it slip into the water, but he could see the ripples move out in a circle, spreading, spreading. He turned around and walked—still dripping wet from his dunking—to the other side of the pier, to where some of his old Brooklyn friends sat, a deck of cards beside them.

**********

"Heya, Jack!" Dutchy said, shoving his last penny into his pocket, his hands stained from the newspapers, but empty. "How's sellin'?"

"Near done," Jack said, lighting a cigarette and nodding at Dutchy. "Two or three left."

"Say, I's just wonderin' somethin'…"

"What's that?" Jack asked, tucking a newspaper under his arm. He was not in the mood to talk, but he couldn't just ignore Dutchy. Nor could he get mad and yell at him…or punch him…or kick him out of Manhattan… Jack shook his head and tried to smile at the other newsie.

"You's seen Race this mornin'?"

Jack's stomach tightened painfully. "Nah. I ain't."

"Think he's awright?"

"'Course. Can take care a' himself."

"Sure, I know," Dutchy said. "But I's just wonderin', 'cause it ain't like him to take off like that an' not come back for so long. He still in Brooklyn?"

"How should I know?" Jack asked, as Kid Blink came up to them.

"Hey, Dutchy," he said, tossing the other newsie a smile before turning to Jack. "Jack, there's somethin' wrong wit' Mush, I think."

"Oh yeah?" Jack asked.

"Yeah. He won't talk to me, an' he's lookin' real down, ya know. Ain't like him."

"An' Race's still gone," Dutchy added to Blink.

"He still ain't showed up?" Blink shook his head.

"Nah."

"Davey neither," Jack said abruptly. "Ain't at the distribution center this mornin'."

"I's seen Davey!" Bumlets said, joining them. "This mornin'. He was walkin' to school wit' Les."

"Whadd'he say?" Jack asked.

"Nothin'," Bumlets admitted. "I couldn't talk to him—just seen him from across the street. He ain't lookin' happy, though."

Jack looked to each of them—to Dutchy, to Blink, to Bumlets—and then, he half nodded, turned on his heel, and left, raising one of his remaining newspapers to eye level and going back to hawking the headlines.

*********

**Shout-Outs**

**B.: Hooray for the confrontation-y chapters. There shall be more confrontation-iness in further chapters. Race definitely strikes me as a former Brooklyn boy, even if just because he seems to have some sort of history with Spot, and I can't really see Spot in Manhattan. *Manhattan!Jack and Manhattan!Spot face off Western style: "Jacky-boy," says Manhattan!Spot. "This town ain't big enough for the both of us."***

**Braids: No, Race isn't too pleased with some stuff right now, to put it rather lightly. He turned down poker, and he _left Manhattan… Not a very pleased little newsie indeed._**

**Thistle: lol, my lips are sealed. There are too many "sides" of the incident, though, and no one seems to have the full story. Not good, not good at all.**

**TXMedic****: Thank you! :) I hope the story keeps your interest all right. That confrontation chapter was really fun to write. Though I felt sorry for both of them…**

**Angelfish: Crazy, crazy, eh? It's not a pretty situation at present; that much is for certain. Thanks for reading/reviewing.**

**JustDuck****: ::smiles at JustDuck, who is still trying to figure out who to run after…then tears after Racetrack:: RAAACE!!! *cough* I really do love all of the newsies, so I get your dilemma. Ta for the review; glad you're still enjoying it!**

**Alarice****: We've got a ways to go before the end, and a lot can happen between now and then! A lot, indeed. Thanks so much for the lovely, lovely, lovely review. :D**


	6. Mush

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies, the characters, the actors, the music, the script, etc. That's all Disney's. The only thing I own is the story I've written here. Please do not move this story from this site. It only belongs here. Anyroad, hope you like it (my first _Newsies _fic!); let me know what you think!**

**Chapter 6: Mush**

"Mushy," Jack said. The younger newsie looked up from the card game he was playing with Kid Blink. "We gots to talk."

"I's kinda busy right now," Mush replied, lowering his gaze to study one of his cards intently.

"It's just a game, Mush," Blink said, exchanging a quick look with Jack. "We can finish it later."

"Nah, I's wantin' to do it now."

"Mush." Jack said quietly.

Mush winced as though Jack had struck him and put his cards face-down on the floor. "Don't be lookin' at 'em, Blink," he warned.

Blink laughed and jokingly crossed his heart with a finger. "I'd never!"

Mush didn't laugh. He nodded solemnly and followed Jack into the bunkroom. Dutchy, Swifty, Specs, Bumlets, and Skittery were all in there, and a few others, all also playing cards, and Snipeshooter was going through the drawers of the night table that he had shared with Racetrack and one or two others.

"Awright!" Jack yelled. "Everyone out! I gots to talk wit' Mush for a minute."

The others all got up and headed for the door, giving Mush curious looks as they did so. Mush knew why. They had all noticed that something was wrong with him lately—that he was quieter and more withdrawn, not happy and peppy as usual—and they probably thought that Jack wanted to sort out the problem without making Mush tell everyone everything. They all probably thought that Jack was being nice and sensitive and all. _Ha! _thought Mush.

"Cowboy?" Snipeshooter was asking, and Mush snapped back out of his own thoughts.

"What?"

"Race's really gone for good, ain't he?" Snipeshooter asked, an unreadable look on his face. "All his cigars's gone. An' his playin' cards. An' his dice."

Jack's face tightened. "Ain't nothin' holdin' him to 'Hattan. He coulda left anytime he wanted."

Snipeshooter nodded crisply. "He's gone," he said, and that cemented it in Mush's mind. Racetrack was gone. He looked down at his mismatched laces, and when he looked back up, Snipeshooter was gone, and Mush was alone in the bunkroom with the person who had made Racetrack leave.

"Mush?"

"Whadda'ya want, Jack?" Mush asked tiredly.

"To talk," Jack said simply, and he sat down on Snipeshooter's bunk. Warily, Mush sat on Race's old one. No one had taken it over yet. No one had seemed to want to. "You's got somethin' to say?"

Mush had a lot to say, but he wouldn't say it. "Why'd he leave?"

"What didja see?" Jack asked, instead of answering.

"Um." Mush hesitated. "I don't know."

"Whadda'ya mean ya don't know?"

"Why did he leave?"

"What did ya _see_?" Jack repeated, but he still didn't look angry.

"You was talkin' to Race and then you's hittin' him," Mush blurted out, immediately adding, "I's sorry, Jack! I's just comin' in to tell ya I was sorry for spillin' on your bandana. Really!"

"Didja hear anythin'?"

Mush felt horribly like crying, but he didn't. "Racey said ya let all us down," he said very, very quietly.

Jack fidgeted with his bandana. "Do ya believe it?"

"No!—that is—I-I dunno…"

"I _didn't," Jack said fiercely and suddenly. Then he sighed. "Mushy, I can't tell you's the whole story. But think 'bout it. I came back, didn't I? Huh? I came back when it mattered."_

Nodding, Mush said, "Yeah." His toes fidgeted in his boots, and he looked up at Jack slowly. "But why'd Race leave?"

Jack sighed again.

"'Cause ya hit him?"

Jack started. Part of him still refused to remember that night. He didn't want to. Instead of answering Mush, he asked, "Why ain't'ch'ya been tellin' everyone?"

Shrugging, Mush said, "Maybe then it wouldn't a' been real. If no one else knew."

"Mush…" Jack paused, then steeled himself and blundered on. "I's sorry."

"Tell that to Racetrack."

"I's sorry you's seen what happened," Jack continued, as though Mush had never interrupted.

Mush's face fell. "You's soaked a lotta people, Jack. But you's never hit none a' your own boys before. Not _really _hit us. Even Skittery. An' now…Racey…"

"Spot woulda hit him a lot sooner," Jack said, wishing Mush hadn't said that. "Back when he first started to be a bummer."

Mush considered that in silence for a minute, then said softly, "You's ain't Spot."

"What's that s'pposed to mean?"

Mush stood up and stretched his back. "I's tired, Jack. Gonna go to bed. Tell Blink I's gonna finish the game tomorrow. Too tired now." He moved across the room to his own bunk and lay down without another word. And Jack let him go.

**********

"Get'ch'ya papes here!" Boots shouted. "Murder in the neighborhood!" He sold a few papers. "Thanks. Dozens dead an' more to follow!" A few more. "Thanks, sir."

"Hey, Boots, what's the real headline?"

Boots spun around. "Davey! Les! How's ya doin'?" He smiled. "Really says, 'Local farm's mon-op-oly on the chicken industry.' Page seven. Where ya been?"

"School," David said in a low voice. "Can you pass the word on to Jack?"

"Sure thing, Davey. Say…ya heard 'bout Racetrack?"

"What about him?"

"Disappeared," Boots said, his face a cross between excitement and worry. "Said he was goin' to Brooklyn day before yestahday. Ain't been back since. An' Jack ain't talkin' 'bout it."

Les had stopped paying attention and was scuffing his boots on the cobblestones boredly, half-wandering. David reached out in an almost unconscious move and caught his younger brother by the collar, reeling him back in. "Why?"

"Dunno." Boots shrugged. "But I's thinkin' he's mad at Cowboy. Was bein' real mean to him earlier, before he left."

"Look." David sighed. "I'll—I'll go talk to him or something. After school, all right?"

"Talk to Jack?"

"Yeah, talk to Jack."

"He's comin' over for dinner tonight!" Les exclaimed suddenly. "Right, Davey?"

_Oh yeah, he is. "That's right," David said. "I'll talk to him then, all right, Boots?" He smiled at the younger newsie and added quietly—so Les couldn't hear him, "It'll be all right, Boots. I'll talk to him, and it'll be all right. I'm sure there's some misunderstanding. Race's fine."_

Boots nodded gratefully. "Thanks, Dave."

"Any time," David said, catching Les by the collar again and taking him by the hand before continuing to school. "See you later."

*********

**Shout-Outs**

**Braids: Here's the update! lol, yeah, I love Spot and Race's chats. They're both quick with their tongues, and I love that.**

**Angelfish: Another chapter for your enjoyment… :) I'm glad you're still liking the story!**

**JustDuck****: Yeah, Jack's not too keen on talking about what happened. He didn't even intend for it to happen. Heat of the moment thing, I suppose. And, lol, Spot probably knows most about bruises coming in conjunction with a soaking…and he strikes me as rather perceptive.**

**B.: Ah, I know that last chapter was short! (This one was a little longer…) I felt kind of guilty about that. :) I love writing Spot and Race's chats. I wish we'd seen more of them in the movie…I'll bet they have some terrific back-and-forths.**

**Fox: Thanks for the review! I'm glad you can't decide between Manhattan and Brooklyn here—there're so many sides to problems, y'know, and it's often hard to pick one as right and one as wrong.__**

**Thistle: Yeah, Jack seems quite hesitant about telling people Race has left…I suppose that would bring up more questions…which he really doesn't want to answer. Yay! Spot's cool! (Spot is the epitome of 'cool.')**

**Alarice****: Agh! You are so supportive and wonderful. Really, really. I mean that!!!**

**Arlene: Wow! I loved your reviews—you're very perceptive. lol, I know, I _love_ reading between lines too! :D And I loved what you said about David and his 'old family, new family' problem. I'd never thought about it that way, but you're completely right, I think.**

**SgtPeppersGirl****: Here's the Mush chapter! Poor guy. And, as you said, poor Jack and poor Race. Lots of 'poorness' going around here, lol!**


	7. Jacobs Dinner

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies, the characters, the actors, the music, the script, etc. That's all Disney's. The only thing I own is the story I've written here. Please do not move this story from this site. It only belongs here. Anyroad, hope you like it (my first _Newsies _fic!); let me know what you think!**

**Chapter 7: Jacobs Dinner**

When Jack knocked on the door to the Jacobs' apartment, Les was the first to answer it. If anything from the conversation between Boots and David had stuck in his mind, he didn't seem at all phased by it. David was compelled to believe that his younger brother still knew nothing of what happened with Race or with Jack and Spot. And he was thankful for that.

"Jack!" Les shouted happily, and Jack picked the boy up, tossing him in the air once before setting him on his feet. The usual greeting was mechanical, though, and David knew it. A quick glance around the room told him that his parents and sister both knew it too.

"Les, you let him go now," Esther said, prying Les from Jack. "Go put the bread on the table for us."

He moved away to do as she asked, and Sarah came over to Jack next, looking rather shy. "How are you, Jack?"

"Fine," he said, a little too sharply, but at least he seemed to realize that because he took her hand and gave it a quick kiss, after glancing at Mayer and Esther. He was uncomfortable doing anything more with them around. Usually, that was frustrating. Today, he was glad because he didn't want to be close to anyone. He almost wished he hadn't come. "I's fine. How ya doin', Sarah?"

"Good," she replied carefully, giving him a slightly worried smile before going to help her mother with the distribution of the soup.

"Jack, David, come sit down," Mayer said, breaking the awkward silence that followed, and the boys went to sit at the table. Esther and Sarah put bowls in front of everyone before taking their own seats, and Les anxiously waited until the instant they sat down before attacking his bowl enthusiastically.

"How has the newsboy life been treating you, Jack?" Esther asked politely.

"Fine," Jack replied. "It's fine."

David shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Looking toward his eldest son and getting an uncertain shrug in return, Mayer asked, "You still doing all right for yourself without your selling partners?"

"Yeah, I's fine," Jack said. "Sellin' a little less, I s'ppose, but I's fine."

Mayer and Esther exchanged glances across the table, and David glanced from them to Jack—who didn't look like he was paying very good attention—to Sarah, who was looking back at her brother with questioning eyes. David shrugged to tell her he didn't know what this was all about, and she smiled sadly.

"Les?" Sarah asked. "Why don't you tell us what happened at school today?"

It worked. Les launched excitedly into a long-winded recitation of the day's events—sans, to David's relief, the talk with Boots. The dinnertime conversation turned to Les' schooltime adventures, and Jack was free to appear not to be paying attention all he wanted. David gave Sarah a grateful look, and she glanced over at Jack, then down at her bowl.

**********

"What happened?"

Jack looked at David, as they walked along the street, then untied his lasso from his waist and began twirling it. "Whadda'ya mean?"

"Jack." David sighed. "You can't really expect me not to notice that something's wrong. You haven't been acting like yourself… So? You going to tell me what happened?"

"Ain't nothin' to tell," Jack said, encircling himself with the lasso and then hopping back out and moving the loop into the air.

David had caught his father at the end of dinner, asking if he could walk back to the lodging house with Jack. Mayer had agreed quickly, knowing that the boys needed to talk. He told David in a concerned undertone to be sure to see that Jack knew he could come back to the Jacobs residence whenever he needed or wanted.

So now, David had a few minutes alone with Jack to figure out exactly what was going on. But the other boy was ignoring the question and playing with his lasso.

So with a deft movement, David caught the rope and jerked it from Jack's hands. Jack hadn't been expecting it, and the lasso slipped easily from his fingers. "Is this about Racetrack?" David demanded.

Jack almost swore. "What, Dave?"

"Boots told me he left for Brooklyn. Is this about that?"

"Huh," was all Jack would say. He shoved his hands into his pocket and continued walking, but David dropped the lasso onto the ground and halted.

"He also said that Race was acting strange. Said that he was being mean to you. What—what's this all about, Jack?"

Jack had to stop too, but he kept his back to his friend. It was obvious that David wasn't going to be moving, and he'd deliberately moved to place a firm foot on Jack's lasso, a way of ensuring that the conversation would happen and that Jack would not just walk away. Jack felt very tired suddenly. He turned to David.

"Why don't ya tell me?" he asked in an oddly polite tone.

David looked confused. "What're you talking about?"

Shrugging, Jack repeated, "Why don't ya tell me what's goin' on?"

"Jack—is this about Spot?"

"Maybe," Jack said.

The pieces came together in David's mind. "Because of the scabber incident. During the strike. Spot's still mad at you—and now Race is too? But…why him?"

"Guess maybe ya can take the boy outta Brooklyn, but ya can't take Brooklyn outta the boy."

David coughed sharply. "Race was a Brooklyn newsie?"

"Yeah. Came here 'bout two or so years ago." Jack shrugged again. "Don't know why. But, yeah, used to be one a' Spot's boys. Guess he still is."

"But why'd he leave this time?"

Jack kicked at a small rock wedged into the cobblestones, and it stubbornly refused to move. "Y'awready know that, Davey."

"Because of Spot being mad at you," David said. "Spot got him to leave?"

"Somethin' like that."

"But _why_?" David looked frustrated. "You came back! Isn't that enough for them!? Isn't it enough that you came back when it mattered? Isn't it? Why's Spot so mad?"

"Biggest crime for a newsie," Jack said levelly. "Goin' scab. It's always us 'gainst them." He snorted and tossed the other boy a challenging look. "It's 'bout loyalty, Davey. Ya know 'bout that?"

"Yes," David replied, glaring. "I know about loyalty, Jack. I have a family. And I have you guys."

"That's just it," Jack said, smiling infuriatingly, as though David didn't really get it. "We's only got the guys. The other newsies. So's loyalty's the most important thing."

"If it's so important, then," David said. "Why did you become a scabber? Why'd you break your loyalties? Or," he added with the closest thing to a sneer that Jack had ever seen from David. "Does money take precedence over everything else—even loyalties?"

"I done it outta loyalty," Jack said quietly.

David's face instantly softened. He could see the honesty in Jack's face, and although he didn't understand, he knew that there was more here than Spot had unveiled. There was something bigger. "Out of loyalty?"

Jack laughed suddenly, as though it were greatly amusing. "Yeah. Outta loyalty to ya bums." He stopped laughing and looked at David. "Can ya believe that?"

"What did Pulitzer say to you?" David asked, and Jack merely tightened his mouth, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. He didn't answer. "Jack…"

"The refuge," Jack said finally. "He threatened to put all a' you's in the refuge. Especially you, Davey."

"Me?"

"Yeah. Ya gots a family." Jack regretted saying it—saying the truth about that day with Pulitzer. He hadn't while he'd been saying it, but now that he had to explain, he regretted telling David. "It's too hard to explain to ya. It's just—it ain't the type a' place for a boy wit' a family. Ya know?"

David nodded, though he really didn't know. "You agreed to be a scabber to keep Pulitzer off our backs?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Jack said flatly, without pride. "It ain't charity or nothin'," he added hastily. "I's just done it 'cause…I dunno. 'Cause I had to. I can't explain it too good. Was just somethin' I had to do."

"Does Race know?"

"You knows, an' I knows…and Pulitzer knows. That's it. Even Weasel don't know the real reason—thinks I done it for the money."

"So Spot doesn't know either?"

"No," Jack said.

David closed his eyes. "You have to tell them. Spot and Race, at least."

"No!" Jack said quickly. "I ain't tellin' nobody."

"Race left because he thinks you're a scabber. Spot hasn't spoken to you in two months because he thinks you're a scabber. Jack, you can't just let this situation go on."

"Ain't nothin' I can do," Jack said evenly, his face a mask. "Race's been free to go back to Brooklyn whenever he wanted, an' I can't stop him. An' Spot…Spot's gonna think whatever Spot wants to think. He's just like that, Davey. I ain't tellin' him nothin' else."

"But Jack, they're mad at you over something they shouldn't be!" David said, but Jack's face remained impassive. "What if Race doesn't come back?"

"He ain't comin' back," Jack said quietly. "That's that. He's gone for good, and that's the way things should be." He bent over and took the end of his lasso in hand, and when he straightened, pulling it up, David lifted his foot and let the rope be taken. "Thanks, Davey. Tell your family that I's sorry for bein' a little distracted tonight."

Because there was nothing else he could do, David nodded and fell back into step with Jack, back toward the lodging house. Step after step. And silence. Suddenly, Jack stopped.

"I can make it from here, Davey," he said calmly, although the words were strange because he could've easily made it from the Jacobs' apartment.

"All right," David said, looking mildly uneasy. "Need anything, Jack?"

"Nah," Jack replied, trying to smile. Instead, the motion just pulled his face into a tight, preoccupied grimace. "I's fine. See ya next week, awright?"

"Yeah," David said. "Any time, you know, Jack. You're always welcome at our apartment; you know that, right?"

Jack nodded, and took two steps from David before pausing and turning back to him. "An' Dave?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell none a' the others, awright?" He shifted uncomfortably. "Sounds a little hoity-toity, ya know?"

"Sure thing, Jack. Sure thing."

*********

**Shout-Outs**

**Braids: Mush is a sweetie. Poor guy doesn't know the whole story from any sides…and that confrontation was not something he wanted to witness at all!**

**Alarice: I'm glad you liked that last chapter enough to…dance with llamas…lolol. Thanks, as usual, for your incredible ongoing support.**

**JustDuck: Jack has told someone the real reason! *applauds Jack's bravery* It's kind of funny, isn't it, how little bits of information can completely change a situation…or big bits of information, as the case may be.**

**Thistle: lol, Spot, Spot. Stirring up the pot. We shall see more of Spot's view in a bit. Yeah, things aren't looking too great for Jack at this point.**

**Angelfish: I'm glad you liked the Mush chat! Here's the dinner…but Brooklyn'll have to wait till next chapter. (I promise it'll be there!)__**

**TXMedic: Yeah, the 'hero-worship' Mush has for Jack…I agree. I mean, that first scene where he asks Jack how he slept—definitely right there. And I'd never thought about how Race, Mush, and Blink were in the same frame an awful lot, but you're absolutely right. I love your insight; thanks so much.**


	8. Non ’Hattan Newsies

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies, the characters, the actors, the music, the script, etc. That's all Disney's. And I don't own 'Camptown Races.' The only thing I own is the story I've written here. Please do not move this story from this site. It only belongs here. Anyroad, hope you like it (my first _Newsies _fic!); let me know what you think!**

**Chapter 8: Non-'Hattan Newsies**

David hadn't really thought this through, and he only really realized it as he wandered through the streets of Brooklyn, alone. He wasn't supposed to be in Brooklyn—whether alone or not—but he couldn't see any way his parents would find out. They thought he was out at Tibby's for a drink with the newsies.

But his safety from his parents did not replace the necessity of a plan, David discovered quickly. He had come to find Racetrack, and now, he realized that he had absolutely no idea of where to look, who to ask (who was even _safe to ask), or anything of the sort. He couldn't even be completely certain that Race was __in Brooklyn._

He'd never been there alone before. The only other time he'd been there was during the strike, with Jack and Boots. It was funny how, when he was alone, Brooklyn seemed so much larger, tougher, and more intimidating. But it didn't wear on his resolve. David _would_ find Racetrack. He _would_ make him sit down and listen. He _would_ make him come back to Manhattan and get everything straightened out.

David looked around. He had to be getting close to the docks, he decided. This all looked very familiar. And in the distance, that _had to be water he heard. He had to be close to the docks. So he kept walking, and the docks came into view, just as predicted._

Harmonica. It sounded like 'Camptown Races' to David. He paused, listening for a second. Could it be Race? _There have to be thousands of harmonica players in the world, David told himself. __And lots in New York.__ Who's to say that's Race anyway?_

Then he saw him. Racetrack. Sitting on the edge of the pier, swinging his legs and playing harmonica. A bit away from the other Brooklyn newsies. Just sitting there and playing 'Camptown Races.' David smiled. A perfect song for Racetrack.

He approached quietly. So quietly, in fact, that Race did not even notice him until David stood next to him. "Race?"

Race startled, blowing a sour note and looking up. "Dave," he said, slipping the harmonica into his pocket.

"Can I—"

"Sure, sure," Race said, gesturing at the dock beside him, and David sat down. "What's rollin'?"

"Nothing much," David said. It was then that he noticed Race's eye. "What happened to you?"

"Nothin'."

_Right.__ Nothing, David thought to himself, but he didn't pursue the subject. The two sat in silence for a while._

"Why's you here, Davey?" Race asked, breaking the quiet.

"Why're _you_ here?" David returned.

"Ain't important," Race said.

Looking down at his legs, dangling over the water, David sighed. "Don't you—don't you miss it?"

"Miss what?"

"Manhattan."

"Nah," Race answered. "I's better here. Don't miss it." He paused as if about to revise that, then shook his head. "Don't miss nothin' 'bout it."

"I miss it," David said. "All of it."

"Whadda'ya talkin' 'bout?" Race asked, looking at him. "You's there."

"No, I had to quit," David said. "My father's arm got better, and he got a job back at the factory. It was only while he was out of work that Les and I had to be newsies. Now I have to go back to school."

"Bum luck," Race said. "But that's better for you, Davey. Trust me. There's problems in 'Hattan. Ain't the same place it used to be."

"Why not?"

"Just ain't."

"Then why am I better off at school?"

"You's smart," Race said. "Right? You's gonna figure it out someday."

_Figure it out someday. Ha! David squinted at his bootlaces. They matched, and Race's didn't. They were tied, and Race's weren't. It was amazing how much one could learn from a person's bootlaces._

"Why'd you leave Brooklyn?" David asked suddenly, in a low tone. "Why'd you come to Manhattan in the first place?"

Race glared across the water. "That ain't nothin' you's needin' to know."

"Was it something with Spot?"

"No."

_Well then. "Then why did you leave Manhattan? This time."_

"It's better for me here."

"You keep saying that, Race, but I don't understand _why."_

Racetrack took up his harmonica and started playing 'Camptown Races' again, looking far out over the water, wondering how big the ripples would be if he threw his harmonica in. How big they'd be if he threw David in. The ripples were always bigger than he expected.

In that moment, David, unaware of Race's thoughts, wanted nothing more than to tell him the truth about the scabber incident. How it was the most loyal thing Jack could possibly have done in that situation. But he couldn't. He'd promised that he wouldn't, and he wouldn't. Ever.

"Race, have you ever been in the refuge?"

Race glanced over at him, pulling the harmonica out of his mouth long enough to say, "Yeah."

"Why?"

"I was starvin'," Race said, eyebrows raised. "So I stole some food."

_I think I've found a trend. "So that's why you were in there?"_

"Well," Race said. "No." He blew on his harmonica pensively. "Was in there for causin' disruption in the streets. Fightin' some bummer. Was a few months after I went to 'Hattan. Got a month in the refuge—well, a month an' a half after I mouthed off one too many times."

David rolled his eyes. "Did you like it there?"

Race looked at him as though he had grown another head. "Whadda'ya think, Dave? A' course not. Why ya askin'?"

"Just wondering."

"Look, Davey," Race said, an edge hardening his tone. "Whadd'ja come here for? Huh? Why ya here?"

"Come back to Manhattan."

"No!" Racetrack bit off. "If you's comin' here to tell me that, you's wastin' your time. I ain't goin' back."

"This is about Jack, isn't it?"

"Don't say that name!"

"Why not?" David demanded. "Why shouldn't I?"

"He's a scabber! He turned his back on us! Why d'ya even trust him now, Davey? Don't'ch'ya remember nothin' from the strike? Don't'ch'ya remember that?"

"Sometimes, you have to take a step backward for every two steps forward," David said. After a moment, it became apparent that Race was not going to respond, and he added, "Jack is _not_ a scabber."

"Whadda'ya know 'bout it anyways?" Race shook his head. "Y'ain't even a newsie. Y'ain't one a' us. Ya don't understand."

"Shut up, Racetrack," David said through gritted teeth. "I _was there. I _am _a newsie still. Maybe I go to school, but that doesn't change __everything. I'm still one of you." He shot Race a hard look. "Look, I can't change what happened during that strike. Neither can Jack. But I'm not stupid, and I understand more than you know."_

"Ya don't," Race said. "Ya don't _know what it means to be let down by your leader. 'Cause you was a newsie for _one_ day before the strike. _One day_, Dave. Ya don't get nothin'."_

"I get more than you do." David said sharply. "And if you'd _talk to Jack for half a minute, you'd get it too. You didn't even give him a chance."_

"He didn't give _us_ a chance, the traiter!"

"Shut _up_, Racetrack!" David repeated, louder than before. "If you'd stop being such a close-minded bum for just a—" 

Race shoved David hard, and the other boy, startled into reacting, shoved him back. In an instant, they were both on the planks of the pier, wrestling hard, trying to get the upper hand, trying to get punches in. Racetrack knew how to fight dirty, and knew it well. David, though, seemed fueled by something else—as though something inside of him had finally snapped—and he easily held his own as they traded punch for punch and kick for kick. They seemed pretty well matched, but Racetrack's experience eventually put him on top, and he took full advantage, hitting David, as David struggled back, landing several good hits of his own.

"SPOT!" someone yelled, and then there were hands, grasping shirts, hauling the two former Manhattan newsies off of each other, separating them harshly. It took two to hold back David—one for each arm—but only one for Racetrack. One of the big newsies, Bricks, had simply grabbed him from behind and hoisted him off the ground, and Race's legs kicked futilely in the air.

Spot had come running over at the call, and, shoving his way through the small crowd of boys that had formed on the pier, he stopped in between Race and David, looking back and forth between them. Apparently deciding David was the easier of the two, he glanced to him first. "What'ch'ya doin' here, Mouth? Jacky-boy send ya?"

"No," David spat out. There was blood on the corner of his mouth from where Race had gotten in a hard punch. "You're both too proud to do something like that—you _and him. This is so stupid, Spot!"_

His fists tightening, Spot raised his eyebrows at David. "That so, Mouth?"

"Yeah, you know what?" David asked, his eyes fixed firmly on Spot's face. He didn't even glance at the other boy's fists. "It is. It's really stupid. You should just go _talk_ to Jack!"

David shouldn't say such things to him. He should know better. Spot wouldn't put up with that. He never put up with that. But…but he couldn't hit him. Spot unclenched his fists as the Brooklyn boys looked at each other confusedly. Spot Conlon, not soak someone who insulted him? But Spot couldn't. To mess with David was to mess with Jack. And the last thing that Spot wanted was to mess with _that_ scabber.

So instead, he said, "Get back to 'Hattan, Davey. I don't wanna see you 'round here, got it? The others'll soak ya on sight." He gestured at the other boys, all of whom looked as though they'd be perfectly happy to soak this boy who had just been beating on Racetrack.

"Fine," David said, though his expression showed that everything was indeed _not fine._

Spot nodded to the boys holding David, and they released him. David rubbed one of his arms and shot a final glance at Race. "You don't know anything," he said quietly, before turning to Spot and adding, "You either."

Then he walked away very, very deliberately. A few Brooklyn newsies looked like they wanted to follow and take care of David for that final remark, but Spot shook his head, and that was enough. He turned to Race, who glared at him defiantly, his feet dangling limply now, no longer kicking.

"Let him go," Spot said, and Bricks dropped Race, who stumbled, but stayed on his feet, still glaring. "What was that all about?"

"Nothin'."

Spot was well aware of the crowd watching them. He reached out and cuffed Race hard on the back of the head. The other boy grimaced, but didn't make a sound. "Show's over," Spot told the others, and they left reluctantly.

Race was rubbing the back of his head. "What was that for?"

"Ya picked a fight wit' Jacky-boy's sellin' partner?" Spot scowled. "Smart move, Race. Smart move."

Race opened his mouth.

"—An' don't even _think_ 'bout sayin' he started it. 'Cause I knows the Mouth, and that ain't the Mouth." Spot stopped suddenly and switched gears. "Did Jacky-boy send him over?"

Shrugging, Race said, "Dunno."

"Whadd'he say?"

"Nothin' much," Race said. "Kept sayin' I's dumb for not trustin' Jack. Asked 'bout the time I did in the refuge. An' 'bout why I left Brooklyn the first time."

"'Cause you's soft."

"I ain't soft!"

Spot almost laughed. Race was glaring at him as though he were going to attack him next. But he didn't. Neither did anything: Spot didn't laugh, and Race didn't attack. They stood in silence, eyes locked—Race's furious and Spot's sharply emotionless.

Finally, Spot tore his eyes away. He looked out across the water. "Don't hit none a' Jacky's boys, got it?"

Racetrack bent over and, in a curiously violent gesture, snatched his harmonica from where it had fallen on the pier at the start of his fight with David. With _David_. Race had gotten into a fight with _David_._ When he looked up, harmonica clutched in hand, Spot's gaze had come back from the water to bore into Race. He expected an answer. He always expected an answer. At least Race always knew where he stood with Spot. Spot wasn't like David. Or like Jack. Spot was Spot. And he was waiting for an answer._

So Race gave him the one he wanted to hear. "Got it."

*********

**Shout-Outs**

**Braids: Thanks for the review! That conversation between Jack and David was fun to write—they're fun characters to bounce off one another. Very different world-views.**

**B.: You don't suck! :D I love David too—there's a lot you can do with him; he's quite a dynamic character. I hope he worked okay in this chapter—I just kept thinking about the scene in the film where he kind of snaps and lunges at Jack (when Jack goes scab).**

**Alarice****: lolol, if your message didn't get through to Jack, I don't know what will! Thanks for the review—here's that update.**

**Angelfish: Here's Brooklyn for you! And yeah, lol, I think Les would come in handy for a nice distraction.**

**Thistle: Jack, Jack, Jack… He doesn't really seem to want to tell anyone the truth…he must have reasons. We shall see…__**

**JustDuck****:** ::watches as several grumbling newsies hand JustDuck an assortment of pennies and marbles:: You called it, mate! lol :)


	9. Scabber

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies, the characters, the actors, the music, the script, etc. That's all Disney's. The only thing I own is the story I've written here. Please do not move this story from this site. It only belongs here. Anyroad, hope you like it (my first _Newsies _fic!); let me know what you think!**

**Chapter 9: Scabber**

"Jacky-boy."

Jack nearly dropped his papers as he turned around to see Spot Conlon standing there, hands on hips, looking furious. Spot. In Manhattan. "Spot," he said, his voice bitter. "You's finally decided to show your face, huh?"

Spot ignored the question. "Keep your newsies outta Brooklyn. That's _my_ territory, not yours, got it? I don't send me boys over to 'Hattan."

"Then what'ch'ya doin' here, Spot?"

Spot ignored that too. "I don't want none a' your boys comin' over an' startin' fights wit' me boys."

_A fight?_ "Who went over?"

"The Mouth."

Jack snorted and didn't buy it. _David in a fight?_ Yeah right. Besides…_ "He ain't no newsie, Spot. He can go where he wants to."_

"He is a newsie. He's your sellin' partner, in case you's forgot."

"Nah, he had to quit."

"Finally saw the truth." Spot nodded. "Finally saw ya for what you is."

Scowling, Jack asked, "An' what's that?"

"A scabber."

"I ain't no scabber!"

"You's a scabber an' a traitor, an' I think that you's just scared a' everybody findin' out now. 'Cause I knows, an' Race knows. How long d'ya think it's gonna take everyone else to figure it out?"

"There ain't nothin' to figure out like you's thinkin', Spot," Jack said. "What ya think ya knows ain't the truth."

"I ain't stupid," Spot replied, narrowing his eyes to thin slits of blue, which stared at Jack accusingly. "I knows what you is. I _knows_, Jacky-boy."

Jack coughed and asked tightly, "So, does Racetrack know you's usin' him to get back at me?"

"I's not," Spot replied, his own tone just as restrained. "I told him the truth, Jacky-boy. That's more than you's tellin' anyone."

"This is bigger then you an' me," Jack said. "It's affectin' all the others too."

"Good," was Spot's reply. "They should know the truth."

Jack looked at him hard, and he could see the hurt in Spot's eyes. Spot, Jack realized, _truly_ believed that Jack had let the others down. He _truly_ was afraid that it would happen again. He _truly_ saw Jack as a scabber. Spot was not trying to stir up trouble, not trying to throw a stick in calm water. He was trying to reveal the truth. It was all there, in that hurt look in his eyes; there, despite the fierceness that was always visible.

Why then, despite this realization, did it make Jack so angry?

Because, Jack knew, it _wasn't_ the truth. He _wasn't a scabber, and he had never been one. He was a newsie, he was loyal, and he couldn't tell anyone why. He couldn't do that to the others. To tell was to show everyone how vulnerable they really were, and nobody liked that. Jack wouldn't do that. So to tell was to betray trust._

He glared at Spot. "That. Ain't. The. Truth," Jack said slowly, his voice harsh.

"Funny how y'ain't tellin' us nothin' else," Spot countered. "Ya keep sayin' that y'ain't a scabber, but y'ain't sayin' nothin' 'bout _why."_

"That ain't for ya to know," Jack said, and he could feel a distant pounding in his chest. "Ain't none a' your business."

"It _is! Ya went scab, Jacky-boy," Spot said, and his tone was suddenly taunting. "Ya went _scab_. Ya became one a' _them_! What's to say y'ain't gonna do it again? Huh?" Then he shook his head and his voice turned disgusted. "I can't even trust ya no more, ya know that?"_

Jack's chest pounded harder and his stomach twisted painfully, but his voice was cold. "You can trust me."

"I _can't!"_

"I ain't one a' them!" Jack said, his cold tone suddenly heated. "You's stupid, Conlon, if ya think I's one a' them! I ain't a scabber!"

Spot glared and matched his tone. "They waved some dough under your nose, an' you went sniffin' off! Sounds like you's a scabber to me!"

"I ain't one!" Jack cried. "I swear to ya, Spot! I never went for no money. I _didn't!"_

"Yeah," Spot jeered. "Yeah, that's right. Ya went for the new suit, that's right. Nearly forgot that."

It took every ounce of self-restraint Jack had to keep from hitting him. A lot of good that would do, anyway. Spot—despite his stature—might well come out of any tussle as a victor. Jack had seen him soak many a larger boy and wasn't eager to follow their fate. He tried desperately to calm his racing heart, but he was too upset. Nothing made sense anymore, and he hated that Spot couldn't trust him. He hated it more than anything.

"What can I do to make everythin' be awright?" Jack asked, barely able to contain his anger. "What's it gonna take, huh?"

"What can ya do to make everythin' be awright!?" Spot repeated furiously. "There ain't nothin' ya can do to make it awright! 'Cause it _ain't_ awright! You hit us when we was down. We trusted you an' ya ruined that!"

_We trusted you an' ya ruined that! The words hit Jack squarely in the stomach and he imploded. He didn't _ex_plode. He __imploded._

"C'mon!" Jack yelled, spreading his arms away from his body in a show of giving up. "C'mon! Gimme your best shot!" He was breathing hard, and his chest moved rapidly, but his fingertips trembled. "Ya don't know nothin'! They said if I didn't help them, they was gonna shut all them up in the refuge! All a' them!"

"That ain't—"

"You, Racetrack, Bumlets, Mushy, Blink, Skittery, Snitch, Pie—Davey, Spot! They was gonna put _Davey _in there! Think a' that. All a' ya. All a' them. An' the strike woulda been over. Just like that. The strike's over, Davey's family's hurtin', Brooklyn's outta leader."

Spot stared at him, startled into silence.

Jack drew a shaky breath and his trembling fingers tightened into trembling fists, still held stubbornly away from his body. "Go 'head! Hit me! I don't care! Gimme a shiner, a fat lip, knock a few teeth out, whatever! Just do it!"

The Brooklyn leader didn't move. His own hands hung limply at his sides, and he watched Jack in expressionless silence. Gone were his angry scowl and demeaning smirk. It was as though he didn't know how to react to this Jack.

Slowly, slowly, Jack let his arms drop back to his sides, and his frenzied look faded into a furious one. He ran his fingers through his hair and faced off against Spot. Spot hadn't moved. He hadn't moved a single inch.

"What would you's a' done?" Jack demanded. "Huh? What would you's a' done?"

Spot took a few steps backward and didn't respond.

"If this is 'bout loyalty," Jack continued. "I ain't in the wrong. I never broke loyalty wit' nobody. If they told me I had to make the same choice again today, I'd do the same thing! I would; I swear I would!"

"They said that?" Spot asked, almost hoarsely. "Pulitzer said that to ya?"

"Ya think I's a scabber?" Jack asked, his fury still unabated. "Ya think I's a dirty scabber?"

Spot looked at him. "No."

"No?" Jack asked. "_No_? Is that the best ya can say? Whadd'about the truth? The truth you's been tellin' everyone? Whadd'about that?"

"_This is the truth," Spot said quietly and flatly. He spit in his hand and held it out to Jack. Jack stared for a second, then mechanically spit in his own hand and clasped it to Spot's. "I woulda done it the same," Spot whispered fiercely, and then he was gone._

**********

Jack knew he'd have to go back to the lodging house sometime. That was inevitable. He couldn't just up and leave Manhattan. _Then_ they could call him a traitor, call him a scabber. Jack kicked at the dirt on the ground and glared at the thin layer of dust on his boots.

He didn't understand it. Why had he hit Racetrack? Mush's words came tumbling back to him, accusing him, pointing invisible fingers at him. _You's__ soaked a lotta people, Jack, Mush had said. _But you's never hit none a' your own boys before. Not _really__ hit us. __Even Skittery.__ An' now…Racey…_

It was true, and Jack, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, walked faster and hated the fact that it was true. Spot hit his boys all the time; if he got mad, he just punched them really, really hard. But Jack didn't. He would tell off the troublemakers, but he wouldn't hit them. He didn't even usually think about it. Sure, he would mess around with them, but they would hit back. But always in jest. And Jack hated himself for breaking that.

But he couldn't hate himself for his loyalty.

It might have been the one thing he had left. But he certainly knew he had it. He couldn't tell the others—oh no, definitely not. It wasn't a matter of showing off, even. It was about pride, perhaps. Not even Jack's pride. The others'. If he told them, they would be embarrassed. Especially if he told them about David. It was hard for David, he knew—to be so immersed in a large group of children without any strings tying them to their relatives and still be equally—more so, even—immersed in one's own family. Jack could hear them in the back of his mind._ What, Davey couldn't handle the refuge? What kinda bum is he? Ain't he got no guts?_

They wouldn't understand. And David would be embarrassed. Then, if they knew that Jack had been protecting them, they'd be embarrassed for themselves. _Ya__ think we's cowards? Huh? We ain't no cowards. We can take anythin' they throw at us! But Jack couldn't. They could ruin him, for all he cared, but never, ever would he let them lay a hand on his friends. He couldn't—and wouldn't—take that._

He would protect them. Protect them from the bulls, from the scabbers, from the bummers, from the past, from the future, from the _truth. He wouldn't tell._

He'd even tried to convince himself that he had given in to Pulitzer for monetary reasons. He'd told himself that it was the fulfillment of his dreams, that it was his security. But it wasn't, and he couldn't fool himself. Security meant nothing if it meant being without friends. Friends were family and family was life. And Jack couldn't let the other newsies be hurt.

That was why he came back, too. Because he couldn't let them get hurt. And in that instant—when he saw the Delanceys soaking David—he had to weigh everything. He didn't want the newsies to be hurt, but what would hurt them more: the risk of being sent to the refuge…or the risk of being abandoned by their leader? In that one instant, as a brass-knuckled fist drew back, aiming at David, Jack had made his decision. He couldn't let the other newsies be hurt.

Jack's stomach burned painfully—not from hunger; he knew those pains well—but from something else. He didn't know what, because he knew he had made the right decision about his friends. But, with a heavy heart and the burning in his stomach, he lifted his feet time and again, moving away from the lodging house. _Not tonight. I can't tonight. I can't face it yet._

With nowhere to stay and nowhere to go, Jack continued walking, exhausted, weighed down by his thoughts and concerns. Nowhere to stay. Nowhere to go.

*********

**Shout-Outs**

**Braids: Race and David fighting…not a normal sort of thing to happen, eh? Poor David; first fight…and it had to be in Brooklyn…with Race. He strikes me as a dirty fighter—that Racetrack. :) Aw, I love him.**

**Thistle: Thank you for the review! Yeah, Spot didn't want to mess with Jack—and hurting David is probably a surefire way to do that. I applaud his restraint. :)**

**Alarice****: Davey says thanks for the ice, and I say thanks for the cookies! ::munch:: And thanks for the singing! :D Such a lovely song.__**

**JustDuck****: Hehe… Pickin' on both Spot _and _Race, are you now? _And_ making unlady-like sounds? lolol You make me laugh! Well…Spot knows now. And in his own way, he understands. Hooray for Spot!**

**TXMedic****: A movie have holes in it? Never! :) That's a really valid point—sometimes you wonder how screenplay authors just glaze over things…ah well, makes for good drama. I looked back over my fic here and noticed the same hole, though…tried to patch it up in this chapter with Jack's little quasi-monologue.__**

**MiseryLovesCompany****:** ::squeals with glee over having a new reader:: Thanks for the review! I'm glad you think the characterizations are all right. Spot and Race are fun to write—they're both quick-witted and are quite blatant about their opinions.


	10. Falling Apart

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies, the characters, the actors, the music, the script, etc. That's all Disney's. The only thing I own is the story I've written here. Please do not move this story from this site. It only belongs here. Anyroad, hope you like it (my first _Newsies _fic!); let me know what you think!**

**Chapter 10: Falling Apart**

"Da_vey_!" David turned around to see Crutchy hobbling across the schoolyard, a smile on his face. "Aw, I's glad to see ya."

"Crutchy?" David asked, feeling dozens of curious eyes on him. They were judging him—and Crutchy too, he knew—with their unabashed glances. And David, looking at his friend, saw him through their eyes. He was as skinny as ever, pale, limping, and dirty. His smile was strained, though it still retained its honesty and warmth. And David was not ashamed. He went to meet the other boy as the entire schoolyard watched.

"Dave, we's got a problem."

"What's that?" David asked, lowering his voice to keep the other students from hearing. They wouldn't understand, and while David knew he could take the taunting they gave him, he knew he couldn't take the taunting of Crutchy.

"Crutchy!" A younger boy barreled his way through the students and launched himself at the newsie, but David, in a well-practiced gesture, caught him by the shirt and pulled him back. Letting Les run Crutchy over was probably not what Crutchy needed.

"Hiya, Les," Crutchy said, but David could see through the affected enthusiasm. "Ya mind if I talks wit' your bruddah for a minute?"

"Can't I listen?" Les asked.

"I'll tell you later," David told him. Then it wouldn't matter. Whatever the problem was, David could edit it. Just like a newspaper headline. Selling the story to his little brother. But the promise seemed to satiate Les, and he backed off.

David tilted his head to the far side of the fencing around the schoolyard and Crutchy nodded, the two moving over to the secluded patch of broken cobblestones. David could still feel eyes watching them, but at least their conversation could be kept quiet.

"Jack's gone," Crutchy whispered.

"Where'd he go?"

"I don't know. No one knows. Blink an' a couple a' the others, they went out to try an' find him last night, but he ain't anywheres nearby."

"When'd he leave?"

"Yesterday, I think. He was there, in the lodgin' house, in the mornin', but real quiet, ya know? An' then, I seen him at the distribution desk that same mornin'. But not after that. Just took his papes and disappeared. Then didn't come back to the lodgin' house. No one seen him."

David looked like he wanted to swear, and Crutchy glanced away awkwardly, but all David said was, "I'm coming over to the lodging house."

Crutchy nodded as if he'd expected that. "Right now?" He looked over at the other students again. "Ain't school over for the day?"

"Yeah." David hesitated. "Give me an hour or so. So I can take Les home and tell Mama where I'll be. Maybe Jack'll have turned up by then."

"Sure, Davey. Thanks a lot." Crutchy paused, then lowered his voice again and asked, "Do—do ya know why Race left?"

David frowned. "I guess maybe he thought that there was nothing holding him to Manhattan."

"That ain't true, though, is it?"

"Whether it's true or not doesn't matter," David told him. "Whether Race believes it or not does."

**********

"Dave?" was the first thing David heard when he walked into the lodging house, nearly two hours after he'd left Crutchy. Mush was pulling on his sleeve. "Davey, I gots to talk wit' ya."

"Do you know what's going on?" David asked.

Mush nodded solemnly as several other newsies hurried over, shouting out welcomes to David. "Davey!" "What'ch'ya doin' here?" "You's come to see Jack?" "Where's Les?" "Heya, Dave!" "Davey, you seen Jack anywheres?"

 "Actually, I have to talk to Mush for a minute, all right, guys?" David said, putting a hand on Crutchy's shoulder and giving them all what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Then he let Mush lead the way to a back room he'd never been in before. A small cot stood in the corner, by a small dresser and a raggedy old desk. _Must be Kloppman's room, David realized._

"I know why Race left. And why Jack left," Mush said very, very quickly. "I knows why, only I ain't told no one, and I don't really wanna tell no one, but I gots to tell ya, Davey, 'cause maybe you's gonna know what to do, 'cause I really don't. I just don't think that they wanted me to—"

"Slow down," David interrupted. "It's all right, Mush. Can you—can you tell me what happened? Why they left?"

"Yeah." Mush hesitated, biting his lip, then blundered on. "They got in a fight, yellin' at each other, an' Race said that Jack let us all down, and then…jackitum."

"What?"

"They gots in a fight."

"No, I got that part," David said. "What was the last bit?"

"Jack…Jack hit him."

"Jack…hit Racetrack?"

Mush looked around worriedly, as though Jack might come out from the wall and pound on him next. "Y-yeah."

"Why? What did Race say to him?"

"I don't remember," Mush said miserably. "I think that was the part 'bout lettin' us down. An' Jack just kinda lost it. Hit him an' then told him that if he left, he couldn't come back."

"And that's when Racetrack walked out," David concluded quietly, the gears in his mind churning. _The black eye.__ That's where he got it. From…Jack._ "But when did Jack leave? Crutchy said it was yesterday."

"Uh, yeah, been gone since yesterday mornin', I think."

_Since the morning after I walked him back to the lodging house, David thought. He looked up at the curly-haired newsie, who was frowning hard at the floor. "Mush… I'm sorry you saw it."_

"Shut up," Mush said sharply, in a voice David had never heard from him. "That's what Jack said too."

"Listen," David said, his voice taking on an equally sharp quality. "It isn't your fault, Mush. All right? You can't blame yourself for what Jack—or Racetrack—said or did. Got it?"

Mush looked at him. "I knows that, Davey."

"Then don't blame yourself."

"It ain't that easy!" Mush exclaimed. "Look, two a' me best friends is gone, an' I's the only one who knows why. I don't even wanna tell no one else, 'cause the reasons is just too awful." He glared at David. "Maybe you don't think this is worth it. Maybe you don't get it. But I gots to do _somethin_'_."_

David sighed. "Where do you think Jack went?"

"Dunno," Mush admitted. "Could be anywheres, I guess."

"Do you think he left Manhattan?"

Mush considered that. "Don't think so. Jack ain't got enough dough to get very far, an' he ain't stupid."

"Fine," David said briskly. "Tomorrow afternoon, after school, you and I will go look for him." Mush opened his mouth, but David cut him off. "No, Mush. It's too dark right now. We'll go tomorrow afternoon, after you sell all your papes. All right?" Slowly, Mush nodded. "Good. I've got to get home—I told Mama I'd be home for dinner, and it's getting dark already."

"'Cause a' the rain comin' in," Mush said.

"Yeah. So I'll see you tomorrow? Here?"

"Yeah."

"All right."

"But Davey…"

"What?"

"Don't tell the others 'bout what happened between Race and Jack. They don't gots to know… Please?"

"I won't say a word," David promised, and then he turned and left the room, leaving Mush with the guilt of telling and the uncertainty of tomorrow.

**********

"Jack ain't a scabber no more," Spot said suddenly and completely out of the blue. He was sitting on the edge of the pier again, and Racetrack was standing nearby, unwilling to go too close; he was avoiding the danger of getting shoved into the water again. It was too cold and damp already to want to be taking a swim. There were clouds moving in, and rain was inevitable.

Race almost pretended not to hear, but there was really no point. Spot knew he had heard, and besides, all that pretending would do would be make Spot repeat himself, likely more forcefully. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." Spot scratched his ear disinterestedly, pretending the words were easy for him to say. "Never was, turns out."

"You's needin' specs, I think," Race said. "Goin' blind. Either that or losin' your mind. Maybe both. Yeah. Prob'ly both."

"C'mere, Race, an' I'll toss y'off the dock," Spot said, making as if to stand.

"Nah," Race said, meandering over and sitting a safe distance from Spot. "Awready washed meself today."

He had his poker face on. But Spot could read it. He could read any Brooklyn newsie, if he wanted. _Probably any newsie anywhere_, he thought and grimaced. "Jacky-boy had his reasons."

"Yeah. He had his reasons." Race snorted. He rubbed his thumb against his other fingertips, indicating money. "Dough. That was his 'reasons.'"

"Shut up, wouldja?" Spot said harshly. "Ya don't know the whole story."

"An' ya do?"

"Maybe I do." Spot wiped a grimy hand across his face and paused to let that sink in. "He was protectin' his boys."

Race hesitated. 'His boys.' That had to be the Manhattan boys. Racetrack was—had been—a Manhattan boy. "Suuuure," he said, drawing out the syllable. Scabbers didn't protect their boys.

"Pulitzer threatened him wit' you lot. Said he'd put y'in the refuge. All a' ya. The Mouth, even. Jacky-boy knew what that'd do to his family. Ya know, too, Racey. Woulda ruined 'em."

Frowning, Race said, "Pulitzer gave him money. Gave him new clothes. _That's_ what Jack went for."

"Willya _shut up_ and listen!?" Spot turned to glare at him. "Ya think Jacky told us the whole story? Ya think he wanted to tell _everyone_ that the only reason he was workin' for Pulitzer was 'cause he knew that he had to for the rest a' ya? Ya really think Jacky-boy'd come out an' say that!?"

The other boy looked conflicted and uncertain. _Would Jack have told the whole truth? If he were protecting us, would he have wanted to say it? If he were protecting David and the rest of us… Would he want to embarrass us?… No! Stop it! Jack let you down, Higgins. He _let _you _down_!_

"Race…"

"You's wrong," Race said calmly, looking far out into the water. "You's wrong, Spot."

"I's never wrong," Spot said bluntly.

"But you's the one who told me that Jack—" Race broke off, realizing it wasn't worth it. There was no way Spot was even listening. Because Spot Conlon was never wrong. He almost laughed, but didn't. Spot wouldn't like that at all.

"So," Spot went on, ignoring Race's aborted comment. "You's goin' back to 'Hattan."

Race startled. "What!?"

"Did I stutter?" Spot demanded. "I _said_ that you's goin' back to 'Hattan."

"I ain't."

"I's not askin' what you thought," Spot said. "I just told ya that you was."

"That ain't your choice, even," Race protested. "I's free to sell wherever I wants to."

In response, Spot made a fist and slammed it against the wooden pier. Race jumped and inched slightly away from Spot. "Yeah?" Spot said. "That so?"

Okay. That wasn't going to work. Race remembered back to his one true run-in with Spot, all those years ago, back when Race had been a Brooklyn newsie. He couldn't even remember the situation, but he'd made some smart remark back at Spot at a bad time, one that had challenged one of Spot's orders. Normally, it wouldn't have been an issue; Spot would've made a smart remark back and they would've had a brief, good-humored verbal tussle. But Racetrack had made the mistake of running his mouth in front of the other Brooklyn boys.

They had laughed and turned their attention to the Italian wise guy, and Spot had to restore order and repeat his command before it was carried out. Spot Conlon didn't much like repeating his orders, and it had taken two weeks for the swelling in Race's lip to go down and the temporary lisp to fade. During that time, he had found out that nobody took a lisping gambler seriously. Besides—it had hurt. So he knew not to challenge Spot when the Brooklyn leader got in serious mode.

But still…Race couldn't go back to Manhattan. He knew he couldn't. Not after what Jack had said. Not after what Jack had done.

"You was right, though!" Race exclaimed. He touched his eye gently. The shiner was healing, but he still winced at his own light probing. "He did this! Jack did!"

"I woulda done it a lot earlier," Spot said tightly, as though it were hard for him to say. "An' ya _knows_ it."

Race lowered his head. "I ain't goin' back."

"Yeah, you is."

"No, I ain't."

"You ain't stayin' here."

"Spot!" Race said, and fear flashed across his face for the first time. "I can't go back there. I can't! He said I can't go back!"

Spot wasn't heartless, and seeing his old friend—who always prided himself in being the constant wise-guy, the constant tough-guy—so worried was disconcerting. But he had to be firm. "Well, _I's sayin' ya can't stay. Ya stay an' I'll soak ya. Ya know I will, Race. Ya know it."_

The look on Race's face was certainly priceless, if not downright pitiful. But in response, Spot's own face only hardened. "You's got till tomorrow afternoon, Higgins. Then ya better be gone. Got it?"

Race exhaled deeply, and his fingers reached into his pocket, retrieving a cigar. He lit it and played with it, not smoking, just fidgeting. "He kicked me out," he mused in such a soft tone that Spot almost didn't hear. Then, with a much more familiar look spreading across his face, Race lifted his dark eyes to study Spot. "Got it," he said. "Maybe these nightmares'll stop when I don't gots to see your ugly puss every day."

"Go back to 'Hattan, ya bum."

"Stay in Brooklyn, ya tightwad," Race returned, popping the cigar into his mouth and wondering if he _could_ go back to Manhattan. But he already knew. The answer was no. But his mouth worked, as his years of practice had proven, without the necessity of thoughts or tact. "Only place someone ugly as ya can make it in the world."

"Cheese off," Spot said, and he smiled as he helped Race take another unexpected plunge into the water.

*********

**Shout-Outs**

**JustDuck****: Spot's thick head has been penetrated! Whee! (It's hard getting through that thick layer of hair…) Yeah, Jack didn't swear Spot to secrecy as he did David…so Spot can tell the truth (the Truth) at his own discretion. Now onto Race's thick head…**

**MiseryLovesCompany****: Spot finding out was indeed a nice step in the right direction… :) I'm so glad you can see this as a valid continuation of the movie! Yay! :) :)**

**The Second Batgirl: Yeah, having Spot on your side is probably always a good idea. Especially with things seeming to go downhill for poor Jack right now… Thanks for the review!**

**B.: I gave Jack depth? Uh oh! ::scans previous chapter frantically:: lol, nah, he's a great character, and I do love him. Spot does indeed seem to understand. He's quite an interesting little bugger, that one. :) And I love him too.**

**JewelKat****: Eep! Can't let you have sleepless nights, lol! Here's an update for you. And thanks for the review!**

**KP: Thank you; I love getting feedback on how the story's going and how people feel about it. I'm glad you like it on top of that! :D**

**pmochizuki****: I'm so glad you like this! When I write these characters, I try hard to make sure that they act within the scope of what I can imagine the movie-characters doing. :) Nice call! Here's that chat between Race and Spot you predicted…**

**bookey****: Davey fighting was quite surprising, lol, but he's a passionate guy and Race just pushed him a bit too far. Thanks so much for the review—I love hearing what people think about the story!**

**Thistle: :D I'm sorry for almost making you cry. Spot keeps surprising me. I think there's a lot more depth there than first glance allows. He cares about the fates of his newsies, and he's darn smart…while still being the cool guy.__**

**Angelfish: When I was writing the Spot-Jack confrontation, it just kind of came to a peaceful conclusion. I was so proud of both of them!...keeping their fists to themselves and all. You're right; was a bit of a POOF! spitshake.**


	11. Rippling Rain

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies, the characters, the actors, the music, the script, etc. That's all Disney's. The only thing I own is the story I've written here. Please do not move this story from this site. It only belongs here. Anyroad, hope you like it (my first _Newsies _fic!); let me know what you think!**

**Chapter 11: Rippling Rain**

The rain had started early in the evening, light and refreshing. But it got harder and harder, until it beat down almost violently. No one was out in the streets anymore. All of the street waifs found shelter in lodging houses, in theaters, in shops and fairly well-covered alleys. Puddles turned into miniature lakes, and the fine layer of dust on the cobblestones of the streets turned to mud.

Two boys were still out. One from Manhattan, the other from neither Manhattan nor Brooklyn. Or maybe from both boroughs. It was hard to say.

At first, it seemed that their respective paths would not—could not—cross. After all, Manhattan was not a small place, and the rain and night and dark had made it bigger. But despite this, it was still not big enough for the two boys to completely avoid one another. Or maybe it was simply fate.

Whatever it was that _caused_ the meeting, it was down the street from Tibby's where they met. Jack was standing there, his back against the brick wall of a shop, a lit cigarette in his hand. The overhang above his head kept him mostly dry and kept the cigarette lit. He took a long drag and stared out at the rain, not seeing it. He wasn't ready to go back. Still.

Had Spot truly forgiven him? He didn't know. But regardless, he simply wasn't ready to go back to the lodging house. Back to Mush's mournful looks, back to the other boys' questions, back to the lack of Race. He inhaled the cool night air, then took another drag off of his cigarette and dropped it, smothering it with his heel.

It was then that he looked up, seeing a scrappy figure walking down the side of the street—a few feet from Jack's overhang—but he looked so filthy and wet that Jack had to squint to make him out from the dark background of the shops across the street.

"Heya!" he yelled, and the figure stopped and turned, but didn't come over. Jack understood. It was dangerous to approach someone on the street when the rain and dark set in. And this looked to be quite a young kid. Jack walked over, and the kid didn't move a muscle. He was frozen in place. Then Jack got a look at the kid's face—

"Racetrack!?"

Race mumbled something that sounded like a curse under his breath, then raised his eyes to look at Jack defiantly. "If it ain't the scabber," he said.

Instantly, Jack felt his anger returning. With that comment, with the sight of Race's face, with the tone of Race's voice. "Whadda'ya doin' here?" he asked bitterly. "I told ya never to come back."

"Couldn't give ya that satisfaction," Race spat back.

His chest constricting with anger, Jack glared. "Get outta here!" he said roughly.

"Why don't'ch'ya make me?" Race responded, his voice rising a notch above Jack's.

Jack took a step forward, but Race stood his ground firmly. "Why'd ya come back?" Jack demanded.

"I ain't stayin'," Race said, instead of answering. "I's just passin' through. I ain't stayin here wit' no scabbers, so don't worry yourself none."

"There ain't no scabbers here," Jack threw back.

"That's funny, 'cause I's lookin' one in the face right now," Race said, his eyes narrowing to focus on Jack through the rain.

 His own eyes narrowing, Jack's voice took on a scornful quality. "Spot throw y'out? What, he figure out that you's a bummer?"

Race glowered at him. "You's an idiot, ya know that?"

"Oh really?" Jack asked, though it was more of a statement than a question. He matched Race look for look, glare for glare. "An' how's that?"

"You's dumb!" Race hurled in response.

Jack tilted his head back and made a mocking face at Race, beckoning jeeringly with his hands. "C'mon. C'mon, gimme it straight."

"Ya don't even remember why you's a scabber!" Race yelled, rainwater matting his dark hair and dripping down his face, soaking his already soaked clothes. "Do ya? Huh?"

"No!" Jack answered fiercely, all semblance of humor—sarcastic or otherwise—instantly gone. There was just anger now. Only anger. "I don't, so why don't'ch'ya enlighten me, huh?"

"That dough! The new suit! That's what it takes to get'ch'ya, Jack? That all?"

"That ain't the truth," Jack protested heatedly. "You wasn't there, Racetrack, ya don't know nothin'!"

"I know you's a traitor!"

"Whadda'ya know 'bout that?" Jack shook his head fiercely. "Ya never even asked me 'bout it! Ya talked to Spot an' that's it! Ya dropped 'Hattan wit'out knowin' nothin'!"

"What's that s'pposed to mean!?"

"_You_'s the traitor!" Jack said angrily.

Furiously, Race struck out with his fist, catching Jack on the jaw, and the taller boy grabbed Race by the shoulders roughly and slammed him against the side of a building, pinning him there. Race winced repeatedly, as though certain Jack would soak him, and Jack, breathing hard, shook him once, then looked away for a minute. When he looked back, his face was calmer, and his tone had softened, but he still held Race tightly against the wall.

"Tell me why ya came here," Jack said, his voice unnaturally loud over the roar of the rain. They were under a narrow overhang now, and the rain became a background instead of another adversary.

"Spot said he'd soak me if I stayed." Race's voice was level—but Jack knew that he was boiling underneath his tightly controlled exterior. It was a trick of survival on the streets. If a kid were shoved against a wall, hit to the ground, pummeled by a thug, he made every pretense of cooperating for his own sake. Until the time came to strike.

"No." Jack shook his head, not letting go of his iron grip on Race's shirt. "The first time. When ya first came here."

Race shrugged. "Dunno. Just liked 'Hattan better, I s'ppose."

"Why?" Jack persisted.

"Lemme go."

Jack released him, and Race glared at him, straightening his vest with a harsh tug. "Why, Race?"

"I don't gots to tell ya nothin'."

"Just answer the question, Race."

Racetrack gave him a dirty look and said grudgingly, "You don't know nothin'—an' anyways, you's just gonna laugh."

"Do I look like I's laughin', Racetrack?"

The Italian gave the other newsie a scrutinizing look, but Jack's face was calm and set. "Hard to say from this angle."

"_Racetrack_." Jack's voice was hard but even. "Gimme an answer. Why'd ya come here?"

Stiffening defensively, Race gave Jack a put out look. "Dunno."

"Ya do so."

"Ya wouldn't understand none. You's gonna think it's stupid or somethin'."

"Try me." Jack raised his eyebrows slightly as he said it, lifting his chin. It was a challenge and they both knew it. To speak of the past…

"I thought," Race said slowly, crafting his response, smooth-talking it over. "I thought maybe I got the freedom a' speech here. More than—more than there."

"'Cause a' Spot?"

"Nah," Race said, shrugging derisively. "Spot ain't really bad. He just makes people nervous. He don't get real mean unless ya deserves it."

"Then why?"

Race thought for a minute. "'Cause there, what'ch'ya needed was your fists. Here—" He smirked. "—ya need your mouth. I's just better at that, I s'ppose."

"Too good, sometimes," Jack agreed ruefully.

A small smile began to tug on Race's face. He fought against it for a second, but it persisted. "What's that s'pposed to mean, Cowboy? Huh? You's tryin' to say somethin'?"

"Maybe I is." The mirror of the smile began on Jack's face.

"What's that, then?"

Jack sobered. "Come back to the lodgin' house wit' me."

"But'ch'ya said—"

"Never mind that," Jack said. "Don't mean nothin' no more. 'Sides, it's wet out here, an' I knows I wants to get inside sometime tonight."

Race stood still, and Jack bent over to pick up the smaller boy's cap, which had fallen in their earlier struggle. He handed it back to Race. "Thanks," Race said, but he still didn't move.

"Yeah," Jack said, his eyes magnetizing to Race's faded shiner. He hesitated. "Race—I's sorry 'bout that. 'Bout hittin' ya, ya know? I's sorry for doin' it." He gently rubbed his jaw, where Race had punched him. "We even now?"

Nodding, Race glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "Spot told me, ya know. 'Bout what Pulitzer said to ya."

"Did he?"

"Yeah."

"An' whadda'ya thinkin'?"

"Sometimes—sometimes ya gotta take a step back for every two steps forwards."

"Ya drunk or somethin'?" Jack laughed. "That's pretty deep for ya, Race. Sounds like somethin' Davey'd say."

Race smiled. "Yeah, does, don't it?"

"So…back to the lodgin' house?" Jack asked.

"Yeah. Back to the lodgin' house."

They started walking, slowly, the rain forgotten. It hadn't lightened: the sky was still dark, the rain was still pounding. They may as well have been the only two people in New York. There was no one else on the streets, and, used to the hustle and bustle of everyday New York life, the emptiness was strange.

"Kinda funny," Race said quietly as they walked.

"What is?"

"How one thing can just kinda ripple out. Like when ya throw somethin' in the water. Ya know? All the little ripples."

"Ya sure y'ain't drunk?"

"Nah," Race said. "Not drunk. Maybe…maybe…"

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe I's just happy."

*********

**A/N: Wow. One chapter left. Wow… Please keep R&Ring. I love you guys.**

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**Shout-Outs**

**Thistle: They certainly did run into each other (Jack and Race)! Nice prediction there… And don't worry. Race isn't homeless anymore. :D**

**KP: Thanks so much for the sweet review! I was proud of Spot for talking to Race too—admitting he was wrong in that cute indirect way. Aww.**

**JustDuck****: lol, I had fun with that Spot and Race chat last chapter. Spot being, as you said, "never wrong" and Race not being able to entirely get out of "wiseass" mode. Here's your update…**

**pmochizuki****: Thanks for the review, mate. I had fun picturing Gabriel Damon acting it out. Well, picturing him in general. :) And I agree; I love a dusting of humor in drama. That's what makes things real.**

**Randy (TheLoneReed): Yay! New reviewer! Thanks so much for the comments. Here's that update for ya…**

**bookey****: Spot kicked Race out because he found out that Jack really _wasn't_ a scabber. And since he didn't want to admit that he was wrong about assuming that Jack was a scabber, he just kicked Race out of Brooklyn in order to indirectly send him back to Manhattan to smooth things over. *deep breath* Hope that made some semblance of sense! :)**

**TXMedic****: I agree. Men. That lack of communication can just blow things way out of proportion. lol**

**Arlene: Thank you so much for all your wonderful, deep reviews! "where's the fun in that? We must have angst!" Agreed, agreed; you are absolutely right! Race on the pier with a harmonica was a beautiful image to me too—had to put that in there. Again, thanks for all the reviews! I always look forward to hearing from you. :)**


	12. Back in the Race

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies, the characters, the actors, the music, the script, etc. That's all Disney's. The only thing I own is the story I've written here. Please do not move this story from this site. It only belongs here. Anyroad, hope you like it (my first _Newsies _fic!); let me know what you think!**

**Chapter 12: Back in the Race**

It wouldn't take them long to walk back to the lodging house, and neither felt the need to speak after Race's last comment. But it was a comfortable silence, no tension of the previous week or so infiltrating it.

Letting his mind wander, Jack was certain of one thing. If Racetrack was back, that meant that either Race or Spot had forgiven him—had realized the truth. And it very obviously hadn't been Race. He did now, yes, but when Jack had first seen him, there had definitely been a grudge there. So Spot had to have forgiven him. Truly. Brooklyn was back on his side. And that indeed was something.

"Jack! Jack!" someone yelled, and Jack's head snapped up.

"Mush?" he called back.

Mush came tearing seemingly out of nowhere, his overenthusiastic feet stumbling through the mud that the dust had become, David following more carefully. "Jack, you's come back! Me and Davey's just been lookin' for ya. We didn't know where you's gone to." Then he froze, startled. "—Race?"

"That's me name," Race said.

"You decided to come back," David said to him stiffly.

"More like the decision was made for me." Race shrugged. "But, yeah, somethin' like that." David raised his eyebrows at that, but Race didn't elaborate.

"We's been out lookin' for ya for hours," Mush said to Jack. "Me an' Dave."

"That true?" Jack asked.

"Yeah," David said. He glanced quickly, almost guiltily, at Race, then looked back to Jack. "Mush—Mush told me what happened."

"Oh yeah?" _The fight. Me…hitting Race. _Jack looked at David for a second, and David nodded slightly. Jack relaxed somewhat. It was okay.

Glancing at Race, then Jack, then back to Race, Mush asked, "Is everythin' awright? I mean—ya know—"

Jack threw an arm around Mush's shoulders. "Everythin's fine, Mushy. Me an' Race talked, an' everythin's gonna be fine."

A small smile broke out on Mush's face. "That's good."

Race turned to David. "Hey, Davey?"

"Yeah, Race?"

"I's sorry 'bout that fight." As he said it, the other boy visibly relaxed a bit.

"Wait, what fight?" Jack interrupted.

Race smirked—a strangely familiar expression—and continued talking to David, as though Jack hadn't said a word. "How'd'ya explain that one to your muddah?"

"Didn't need to," David said, tossing a slightly mischievous look in Jack's direction. "You didn't leave a mark on my face. Once I got the blood off, that is."

"Blood? What blood?" Jack demanded. "Racetrack, what's this 'bout?"

"Jacky-boy," Race said, attempting to drape an arm over Jack's shoulders and failing due to height differences. "That is another story for another day."

Jack shrugged him off. "Don't call me that. Ya hit Dave?"

"Ya shoulda seen him hit back," Race said, holding his fists up and punching at the air. "One-two. Wham! He ain't half-bad if ya get him riled up enough. First time I ever seen him really fight."

"And the last," David said, laughing.

Mush looked completely confused, and Jack looked like he couldn't decide whether to be angry or amused by the whole situation. Shrugging it off, Mush asked cheerily, "You's comin' back, Race? You's really comin' back?"

"Don't tell me you's got a complaint 'bout that," Race said, throwing his hands up in mock-despair. "There's just no pleasin' some people."

Jack fake-punched him in the gut, and Race slugged him back playfully. "No hard feelin's, then, Jacky-boy?" Race asked.

"There's gonna be hard feelin's if you's callin' me that name again."

"Dear me," Race said, putting a hand on his heart. "Was that a threat, _Jacky-boy?" Grinning hugely, he promptly took off at a dead run, racing back to the lodging house, with Jack right on his tail._

"Looks like everything's back to normal," David observed, smiling over at Mush as the two followed at a slower pace, ignoring the rain.

"Is it?" Mush asked. "Race said Jack let us all down. Does it mean now that he didn't?"

"He never did, Mush," David said. "Jack's loyal. He never broke that. I suppose it's kind of complicated, and it just took Race a bit longer to understand it."

"Even wit' the scabber thing? Ya know. Durin' the strike?"

"Even then," David replied. "It isn't my story to tell, and I don't even think Jack wants it getting around, but take my word for it. Jack never let any of us down."

Mush nodded, accepting, as they approached the lodging house. Race and Jack were standing just off of the porch, waiting for them. Both were slightly out of breath, and their hair and clothes were rumpled and thoroughly wet, but both were laughing. David nudged Mush. Everything was back to normal. Race was still the wise guy, Jack was still the easygoing Manhattan leader all for a bit of fun teasing.

Everything was back to normal.

"Shall we?" Jack asked in an affected dignified accent when David and Mush reached the other two.

"Ah, shut up, ya scabber," Race said, giving him a light shove before pushing ahead of everyone and walking into the lodging house.

"RACE!" "Race, you's back! "Racetrack!" "Hiya, Race!" "Race, ya back now? Really?" "C'mere, Race!" "Heya, Race, how's 'bout some poker?" "Race, we's saved your bunk!" "Racey, I knew you's comin' back!" "How's Brooklyn, Race?" "Didja sell there while you was visitin'?" "Race, come see this!"

Still on the porch, David, Jack, and Mush glanced at each other. "Not a word," Jack said to them, grinning.

As the flurry of excited greetings continued inside, the other two agreed. Race was back, everything was back to normal, there were no hard feelings, and nothing else mattered. Everything was okay.

**********

Racetrack dropped down from the railing he'd hopped onto to watch the race. Another loss. What a welcome back present. Pockets empty, save a pair of dice, as the horse had run his last few coins into the ground. But he was smiling as he bent down to retrieve his pile of newspapers. At least those were still there, anyway. He still had time to sell them before he'd have to head back to the lodging house.

"Boy!"

Turning, Race ran his eyes up and down the burly man glaring maliciously at him. _Oh dear. "Yeah?"_

"Remember me?"

"Nah…" Race said. "I can't be 'spected to remember every ugly bummer I run across in the streets." He smiled and moved closer. "Wanna buy a pape?"

The man made for him, and Race dodged, turning tail and running as fast as he could in the other direction. He could feel his newspapers slipping from his fingers and falling to the ground. _No, no, no!_ They were all gone. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that the man was not letting up quite so easily, and Race increased his speed, dodging down an alleyway, then up another, away from the burly man.

Thankfully, he was so accustomed to running from Sheepshead—and various taverns—that he got away safely. Again.

But he still didn't have any money. Or newspapers. Again.

Oh, it was good to be a Manhattan newsie!

*********

**A/N: And thus ends _Rippling Out. Thank you guys so much for your support and kindness in reading. Kudos to my reviewers: Harlem, Arlene, JustDuck, B., Thistle, TXMedic, Angelfish, Alarice, HopeWasHere, Braids, Shakeseegirl, Fox, SgtPeppersGirl, MiseryLovesCompany, The Second Batgirl, JewelKat, KP, pmochizuki, bookey, Randy, and Razzleteddy. I want you guys to know that I loved and valued each and every review—so thank you._**

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**Shout-Outs**

**pmochizuki: Thank you! I worked hard at the pacing of the story…sometimes I have a load of trouble with that, but I'm so happy you say it worked! And I do love reconciliation…::blissful sigh::**

**JustDuck: Aw, don't be bummed by the ending of the story…at least it's a happy ending! All loose ends tied up into nice little bows… Thank you so much for all your steady support throughout the story! Much appreciated. You rock, girl!**

**Razzleteddy: Yay! New reviewer! Thanks for the review…here's that last chapter. Hope you like it!**

**Randy: I love your penname! Very poetic. Thank you so much for your sweet review—it did indeed put a smile on my face. I'm glad you like the story and the characters. They're awfully lovable newsies. :)**

**B.: I love Happy!Racetrack. He's got such a sweet smile. Thank you so much for your reviews throughout the story…and for the big (yes, I think it was big) bit of help you gave me at the beginning—you were absolutely right.**

**MiseryLovesCompany: lol, I figured that shoving people into the water would be a nice skill for Spot to have picked up. _Soakin_" them and all… lol, sorry. Bad pun.**

**Thistle: I know, I love a happy ending…as long as people are changed somehow by the experience and all. Here's the chapter for you!**

**KP: Jack and Race? Of course they made up cutely. They are both supremely cute. Thank you so much for the review—I love it when people point out what worked or what didn't—so helpful and fun to read too!**

**Braids: I'm so glad your computer got its act together! :) Thanks for your reviews throughout the story—you've always been so positive!**


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